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Br  THE  AUTHOR   OF  THIS    VOLUME. 


RECENTLY  ISSUED. 

X)  O  Hj  O  lE^  E  S. 

A  CUAKMING   NOVEL. 

BY    MRS.   FORRESTER, 

AUTHOB  OF  "fair  WOMEN,"   "  MT   HERO,"   "FROM   OLYMPUS   TO   HADES,"   ETO. 

12mo.    Extra  cloth.    $1.75. 


"  A  deeply  interesting  booiv,  full  of  incident  and  novelty.  The 
plot  is  original,  the  characters  are  admirably  drawn,  and  true  to 
nature." — London  Court  Journal. 

"An  unusually  good  novel.  One  of  the  best  stories  we  have 
read  for  a  lung  time.  The  ])lot  is  well  constructed,  and  there  is 
plenty  of  stirring  incident  and  clever  delineation  of  character." 
— London  Post. 

"This  book  is  a  charming  one.  It  is  a  fascinating  and  well- 
written  tale." — John  Bull. 


*^*  For  sale  by  Booksellers  generally,  or  will  be  sent  by  mail, 
postpaid,  upon  receipt  of  the  price,  by 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  &  CO.,  Publishers, 

715  and  717  Market  Street,  Fhiladelphia. 


DIANA  OAREW; 


OB, 


FOR  A  WOMAN'S  SAKE. 


BY 

MRS.   FOERESTER, 

AUTHOR    OP   "DOLORES,"    "FAIR    WOMEN,"   "  MY    HERO,"    ETC.    ETC. 


"Yet,  when  we  look  deeply  into  life,  we  shall  perhaps  find  hardly  any  stretch 
of  invention  more  singular  than  the  scpnes  daily  realizing  around  ns:  never- 
theless, if  one  idea  not  familiar  to  the  mind  nor  in  the  scope  of  our  own  immediate 
knowledge  be  presented  to  us,  we  all  cry  '  Romance  !'  nor  recollect  that  this  word 
is  the  most  comprehensive  one  in  the  whole  dictionary,  as  it  includes  every  idea 
unknown  to  the  person  who  pronounces  it." — liift  of  a  Lover. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  &   CO. 

187G. 


Notice. — It  was  intended  to  call  this  Novel  by  its  second 
title,  "  For  a  Woman's  Sake,"  under  the  impression  that  it 
was  an  original  one.  The  work  had  been  thus  printed  when 
it  was  discovered  that  the  title  had  been  used  before.  The 
Author  has  therefore  prefixed  it  by  another. 


/f'-^^ 

-</•- 

FOE  A  WOMAN'S   SAKE. 


CHAPTER    I. 

Diana's  story. 


"  Here  comes  Diana  of  the  Ephesians !  Ask  her  what 
she  thiuks !" 

I,  Diana  Carew,  am  the  person  thus  apostrophized.  The 
speaker  is  my  only  brother,  Wyndham — commonly  called 
Curly — Carew.  The  third  person  is  my  father, — God  bless 
him !     A  dearer,  kinder  father  never  breathed. 

He  smiles,  and  lays  his  hand  on  my  shoulder,  as  having  de- 
posited my  burden — a  jet-black  kitten  and  a  creamy-white  one 
— one  on  each  of  Curly's  shoulders,  I  seat  myself  on  his  knee. 

"  Read  that,  Di,"  he  says,  putting  into  my  hand  a  heavily- 
crested  and  nionogramed  envelope,  directed  in  a  lady-like  hand 
to  Wyndham  Carew,  Esq. 

With  eager  curiosity  I  take  out  the  note  it  contains,  and 
read  as  follows: 

"  Dear  Mr.  Carew, — 

"  We  really  cannot  allow  you  to  condemn  your  pretty 
daughter" — (I  feel  flattered,  and  blush  a  little:  it  is  not  often 
I  have  that  adjective  applied  to  me.) 

"  Aha,  Miss  Vanity  !"  cries  Curly,  "  I  see  the  rose  come  to 
your  damask  cheek  at  the  soft  impeachment.  Proceed,  •pretty 
daughter." 

"  Don't  interrupt  her,  Curly." 

A*  9 


10  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

— "  To  the  hermit's  life,"  I  read  on,  "  you  persist  in  lead- 
ing yourself, — much  to  the  regret  and  disappointment  of  your 
neighbors." 

"  Who  is  this  polite  lady  ?"  I  inquire,  referring  to  the  end 
of  the  note.     "  Oh,  Mrs.  Warrington  !" 

"  We  have  some  friends  coming  to  us  on  New  Year's  Day, 
and  if  you,  with  your  sou  and  daughter,  will  spend  a  few  days 
here,  we  shall  be  delighted  to  see  you  idl.  We  hope  to  pre- 
vail upon  you  to  join  us ;  but,  if  you  are  as  I'esolute  as  usual 
in  declining  all  invitations,  do  not  deprive  us  of  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  your  young  people.  Mr.  Warrington  has  still  some 
fair  shooting  left,  if  that  will  be  any  inducement  to  you  per- 
sonally ;  and  he  bids  me  say  he  will  mount  your  son  as  often 
as  he  likes.  Tell  Miss  Carew  we  shall  have  a  little  dancing, 
and,  I  hope,  some  other  amusements  for  the  young  ladies.  I 
warn  you  I  do  not  intend  to  take  any  refusal  as  far  as  she  is 
concerned ;  and  if  you  do  not  yield  at  once  to  my  request,  I 
shall  come  over  and  press  it  personally. 

"  Mr.  Warrington  joins  me  in  kindest  regards,  and  believe 
me,  dear  Mr.  Carew, 

"  Very  sincerely  yours, 

"Georgiana  Warrington," 

My  eyes  glisten,  the  color  deepens  in  my  face  as  I  read,  and 
when  I  have  finished  I  look  up  eagerly  in  my  father's  face. 

"  Well,  my  dear"  (his  kind  eyes  shining  tenderly  upon  me), 
"  what  do  you  say  ?" 

"  Oh,  papa,  could  we  go?" 

"  I  suppose  you  would  like  it  very  much  ?" 

"  Oh  !"  (with  a  great  sigh,  which,  if  it  expresses  what  I 
feel,  must  speak  volumes). 

"  If  you  do  not,  people  will  think  I  am  a  tyrannical  old 
ogre,  who  keeps  you  shut  up  like  the  fathers  in  storj^-books." 

"  Oh,  dad,  do  let  us  go !"  cries  Curly,  with  enthusiasm. 


DIANA'S  STORY.  11 

"  It  will  be  such  glorious  fun ! — and  old  Warrington  has  such 
splendid  horses.  Til  show  them  the  way  !"  (his  blue  eyes 
flashing  with  delight  at  the  bare  thought  of  hunting  on  one  of 
Mr.  Warrington's  mounts). 

"  My  dear  fellow,  suppose  you  staked  or  broke  the  back  or 
threw  one  of  his  two-hundred-guinea  hunters  I  How  would 
you  feel  ?" 

"  Never  fear,  dad  :  I'll  be  as  steady  as  old  Time." 

"  Well,"  says  papa,  thoughtfully,  "  if  you  are  both  so 
anxious,  I  do  not  see  any  very  important  objection  to  your 
going." 

"  But  you  will  go  too?"  we  both  cry,  in  a  breath. 

He  shakes  his  head,  and  sighs  a  little. 

"  No,  children,  my  visiting  days  are  over,  and  you  know  I 
do  not  care  to  accept  kindnesses  I  cannot  return." 

'■  Then  /  shall  not  go, — that  is  very  certain,"  I  say,  deci- 
sively, but  with  a  little  swelling  of  disappointment  in  my  throat. 

"  Nor  I,"  adds  Curly,  in  a  dejected  tone. 

Our  father  looks  at  us  both  with  a  fond  smile. 

"  What !  do  you  think  I  am  not  to  be  trusted  by  myself 
for  a  few  days?"  he  asks,  putting  a  hand  on  each  of  our 
shoulders.  "  Mrs.  Warrington  is  quite  right.  I  must  not 
keep  Di  shut  up  forever.  It  is  time  she  came  out ;  and  I  do 
not  know  any  one  under  whose  auspices  I  should  better  like 
her  to  do  so  than  Mrs.  Warrington's.  Why,  how  old  are  you, 
Di?     Seventeen?" 

"  Eighteen  last  month,  papa,  you  kiioio,''  I  answer,  reproach- 
fully. "  But  I  shall  not  go  without  you.  I  shouldn't  care 
the  least  for  it.  And,  besides,"  as  a  sudden  and  most  impor- 
tant reflection  occurs  to  me,  "  I  have  nothing  to  go  inr 

"  Beauty  unadorned's  adorned  the  most,"  spouts  Curly. 
"  Tliank  Heaven  !"  (grandly),  "  those  considerations  don't 
afiiect  me  !" 

"  Ah  !"  says  my  father,  ruefully,  "  I  forgot  that.     To  b  • 


12  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

sure,  that  is  a  very  important  point.  And  I  suppose"  (look- 
ing at  me  inquiringly)  "  ladies'  dress  is  a  tremendous  business 
in  the  present  day." 

"  Oh,  yes,  "  I  reply,  cheerfully,  having  quite  made  up  my 
mind  now  to  the  impossibility  of  going.  "  Miss  Pratt  told  me 
that  when  she  was  at  Lady  Gwyneth  Desborough's  for  three 
days,  the  ladies  changed  their  dresses  four  times  a  day,  and 
had  different  ones  every  day." 

"  Indeed  !"  says  papa,  smiling.  "  But  I  do  not  suppose  you 
would  be  expected  to  dress  like  Lady  Gwyneth,  though  I 
hardly  fancy  she  had  many  more  dresses  than  you  have,  before 
she  married  poor  little  Desborough." 

"  Well,"  I  reply,  with  more  emphasis  than  elegance,  "  I 
would  rather  go  about  in  a  cotton  gown  all  my  life  than  have 
married  him .'" 

"  Oh,  he  isn't  a  bad  little  chap,"  remarks  Curly,  "  if  he 
wasn't  so  dreadfully  ashamed  of  the  shop,  and  so  fond  of  talk- 
ing about  his  father-in-law  the  earl." 

"  But,  Di,"  puts  in  my  father,  "  you  must  have  one  or  two 
dresses,  I  suppose.  You  always  seem  to  me"  (doubtfully) 
"  to  look  very  nice." 

I  shake  my  head. 

"  Only  this,"  pointing  to  my  well-worn  serge,  "  and  an  old 
black  silk  for  Sundays,  that  has  been  turned  twice,  and  a 
white  muslin,  so  shrunk  that  the  body  wouldn't  meet  last  time 
it  came  from  the  wash.  No"  (with  mournful  emphasis),  "  it 
is  very  certain  I  cannot  go  to  Mrs.  Warrington's." 

"  Oh,  dear  !"  cries  Curly,  ruefully,  "  what  a  selfish  beggar 
I  have  been,  running  the  Dad  up  such  tailors'  bills  at  Eton, 
and  all  the  time  poor  little  Di  has  had  to  do  without." 

"  Why,  Curly,"  I  respond,  quickly,  "what  in  the  world  do 
I  want  with  clothes  here  ?  And  if  you  were  different  from 
the  other  boys — I  mean  fellow.s — at  Eton,  it  would  never  do." 

"  Come,"  says  my  fether,  "  it's  not  too  late  now.     Cay  and 


DIANA'S  STORY.  13 

you  must  lay  your  heads  together  and  see  what  can  be  done. 
I  think  I  have  a  ten-pound  note  somewhere,  and  I  suppose  if 
you  had  a  dress  for  the  day,  and  another  for  the  evening,  thal^ 
would  do  just  for  a  few  days." 

"  Ten  pounds !"  I  cry.  The  idea  of  spending  such  a  sum 
all  at  once  upon  my  dress  seems  preposterous.  "  But  I  am 
not  going.  Curly  can  go ;  you  and  I  will  stop  at  home  to- 
gether, papa,  and  be  as  happy  as — as " 

"  As  what?"  asks  papa,  smiling. 

"  As  anything,"  I  respond,  lamely,  not  finding  a  suitable 
comparison. 

"  Now,  I  have  made  up  my  mind  that  you  shall  both  go," 
says  my  fether,  "  so  I  shall  proceed  to  my  room  and  write  to 
Mrs.  Warrington  that  you  and  Curly  will  be  there  on  New 
Year's  Day.  And  you,  Di,  go  and  consult  with  Gay ;  you 
have  a  fortnight  before  you  to  prepare." 

"  Papa,"  I  say,  obstinately,  "  I  will  not  go.  I  do  not  care 
about  it;  indeed  I  do  not." 

"  You  will  be  a  good,  obedient  little  daughter,  and  do  as  1 
tell  you,"  he  answers,  going  off  to  write  the  letter,  and  leaving 
me  irresolute  and  uncomfortable  in  my  mind. 

"  Curly,"  I  say,  appealing  distressedly  to  my  brother,  "  I 
caibt — I  wont  go,  and  leave  papa." 

"  Nonsense,  Di !  the  Dad  will  be  happy  enough.  You'll 
have  to  leave  him  some  day,  when  you  get  married." 

"Get  married!"  I  retort,  in  exceeding  scorn.  "Yes,  a 
great  deal  of  chance  of  that !  Why"  (reflecting),  "  I  don't 
suppose  I've  spoken  to  a  man — a  gentleman,  at  least — since  I 
was  grown  up." 

"  What,  not  old  Stiggins?" 

"Don't  speak  disrespectfully  of  your  spiritual"  pastors  and 
masters,  sir;  but  I  don't  call  him  a  man." 

"  Ho,  ho !  I  wonder  which  he  would  call  the  most  disre- 
spectful ? — you  oi:  T  ?" 

2 


14  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"  Well"  (sighing),  "  I  will  go  and  talk  to  Gay.  Oli,  Curly  1 
don't  pull  Othello's  tail." 

'    Othello  is  the  black  kitten ;  the  white  one  rejoices  in  the 
name  of  Dcsdemona. 

"  I'll  come  too."  And  he  marches  off  to  the  housekeeper's 
room,  by  courtesy,  where  Gay,  our  fliithful  old  nurse  and 
general  factotum,  sits  darning  stockings  for  the  million. 

Curly  throws  open  the  door. 

"Her  Majesty  the  Queen  and  His  Royal  Highness  the 
Prince  of  Wales,"  he  commences,  in  a  loud  and  important 
voice,  "  having  for  some  time  past  remarked  a  dearth  of 
beauty  about  the  court,  and  hearing  that,  in  the  wilds  of 
Blank.shirc,  there  blooms  unseen  an  exquisite  creature  of  the 
name  of  Diana  Carew,  hereby  intimate  that  her  presence  is 
forthwith  commanded  at  Buckingham  Palace ;  which  being 
interpreted,  my  dear  old  Susannah,  means  that  Di  is  going 
to  pay  a  swell  visit,  and  that  3'ou  have  to  set  about  providing 
her  with  a  suitable  wardrobe." 

"What  ever  does  the  boy  mean?"  cries  Gay,  bewildered, 
looking  up  at  us  over  her  spectacles. 

"What  I  say,  0  unbelieving  Jewess,"  dragging  her  work 
from  her  surprised  hands  and  shying  it  to  the  farther  corner 
of  the  room.  "Away  with  melancholy! — away  with  worsted 
stockings !  From  henceforth  Diana  will  walk  in  silk  attire, — 
will  captivate  the  heart  of  some  lord  of  high  degree,  and  re- 
store the  shattered  fortunes  of  the  house  of  Carew."  And 
Curly,  in  the  blithencss  of  his  young  heart,  hugs  his  old  nurse, 
to  the  great  detriment  of  her  cap-strings. 

She  tries  to  look  angry  and  to  expostulate,  but  who  can  be 
angry  with  Curly?  Of  all  the  cheery  faces,  of  all  the  beam- 
ing blue  eyes  brimful  of  laughter,  of  all  the  curly  golden  locks 
whence  he  gets  his  sobriquet,  there  are  none  to  equal  those  of 
my  young  brother ;  and,  more  than  that,  he  has  the  sweetest 
disposition  and  the  kindest  heart  in  the  world.     If  he  is  a 


DIANA'S  STORY.  15 

little  aggravating  sometimes,  I  sliould  like  to  know  wliat  a 
boy  is  worth  whose  animal  spirits  do  not  run  away  with  him 
now  and  then. 

"  Now,  Miss  Di,  my  dear,  do  you  tell  me  what  it's  all  to  do 
with,"  says  Gay,  apostrophizing  me  in  despair  of  getting  any 
rational  answer  out  of  her  pet, — for  Curly  is  her  pet  without 
a  shadow  of  doubt,  and  I  don't  know  that  I  am  very  jealous 
of  her  preference.     Don't  we  all  pet  and  adore  him  ? 

"  We  are  invited  to  "Warrington  Hall,"  I  answer,  "  and 
papa  wishes  us  to  go ;  he  won't  go  himself." 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  what  ^vill  you  do  for  clothes  ?"  cries  practical 
Gay,  at  once  closing  with  the  obstacle  that  had  only  been  au 
after-thought  with  me. 

"  Papa  has  offered  to  give  me  ten  pounds ;  but  what  is 
the  use  of  wasting  all  that  money  in  clothes?"  I  say,  lugu- 
briously. "  After  all,  I  don't  suppose  I  should  enjoy  going  to 
Warrington  very  much.  I  think  I'll  run  down  and  ask  papa 
to  decline  for  me." 

"  Rash  girl,  forbear !"  cries  Curly,  catching  me  by  the 
arm,  and  striking  a  tragic  attitude.  "  I've  made  up  my  mind 
you  shall  go,  and  I  prophesy  you  will  meet  my  future  brother- 
in-law,  who  will  be  rich,  and  who  will  mount  me  and  give  me 
shooting,  pay  my  debts,  and,  in  short,  make  himself  a  con- 
venience to  me  generally.  You  know,  Di"  (holding  me  at 
arm's  length  and  looking  critically  at  me),  "  though  I  say  it 
who  shouldn't,  you're  not  altogether  what  oue  would  call  au 
ugly  girl ;  rather  the  other  way. 

Your  hair  is  like  the  raven's  vving, 
Your  brown  eyes  flash  lilie  anything. 

Hold  on  !  till  I  get  two  more  lines  to  rhyme. 

Your  pearly  teeth  and  coral  lip," 

"  And  nose  just  turned  up  at  the  tip," 

I  end,  laughing. 


16  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"  By  jingo,  that  makes  a  complete  portrait:  don't  it,  Susan- 
nah, my  dear?" 

"  Well,  Master  Curly,  I  don't  see  that  her  nose  turns  up  at 
the  tip.     I'm  sure  a  straighter  one " 

"Now,  Gay,"  I  cry,  rudely  breaking  in  upon  her  defense 
of  my  appearance,  "  never  mind  my  nose,  but  let's  think  of 
what  I  am  to  wear,  if  I  do  go  after  all." 

"  I  suppose  ten  pounds  wouldn't  buy  a  velvet  gown,  would 
it?"  asks  Curly,  doubtfully. 

"  A  velvet  gown  1"  I  laugh.  "  A  nice  matronly  old  person 
you  would  make  of  me  1" 

"  Indeed,"  he  retorts,  "  I  can  tell  you  Archdale's  sisters 
both  have  velvet  gowns,  and  they  are  younger  than  you, — at 
least,  one  of  them  is ;  but,"  dropping  his  voice,  "  he  told  me 
they  cost  five-and-twenty  guineas  each." 

"  Well,"  I  return,  with  some  contempt,  "  I  am  not  Arch- 
dale's  sister,  and  if  I  had  twenty-five  guineas  I  think  I  could 
employ  them  better." 

"  Di,"  says  Curly,  laying  a  hand  on  my  shoulder,  "  I  don't 
think  you'll  find  ten  pounds  go  quite  so  far  as  you  think,  and" 
(blushing  a  little)  ''  if  you  should  want  any  more  I  have  a 
fiver  that  I've  been  saving  up  and  haven't  any  veiy  particular 
use  for." 

For  answer  I  throw  my  arms  round  his  neck  and  give  him 
a  fervent  hug,  whilst  Gay  contemplates  us  both  with  an 
expression  of  beatitude,  murmuring, — 

"  Lord  bless  the  dear  children  1" 


DIANA'S  STORY.  17 


CHAPTER    11. 


DIANA  S   STORY, 


The  house  of  Carew  is  not  in  a  flourishing  state  at  the 
present  time ;  far  from  it.  Gay  has  wild  legends  about  the 
days  of  the  old  squire,  when  the  Carews  were  great  people  in 
the  county,  of  the  grand  doings,  the  entertainments,  the  car- 
riages and  horses,  the  powdered  footmen,  and  all  the  apanages 
of  wealth  and  distinction.  She  has  told  us  a  score  of  times, 
as  we  have  sat  round  the  nursery  fire,  of  the  ox  roasted  whole, 
the  barrels  of  beer,  the  dancing  and  feasting  that  took  place 
when  our  father  came  of  age,  and  the  gay  doings  five  years 
later,  when  he  brought  our  mother  home,  and  the  people  took 
the  horses  out  of  the  carriage  and  dragged  the  bride  and 
bridegroom  home. 

That  is  only  twenty  years  ago.  Whence,  then,  this  sudden 
and  rapid  decline  in  the  fortunes  of  our  house  ?  Alas !  I 
scarcely  know.  My  father  has  never  entered  into  any  expla- 
nation of  the  causes  of  our  poverty,  though  he  occasionally 
recurs,  with  mingled  sorrow  and  bitterness,  to  the  fact.  As 
for  Gay,  she  cannot  give  us  absolute  information,  but  thinks 
that  at  our  grandfather's  death  his  affairs  were  found  in  an 
unsatisfactory  state,  and  that  papa,  in  the  hope  of  setting 
matters  straight,  speculated,  and  thereby  brought  the  ruin  to 
a  climax.  Well,  it  cannot  be  helped.  One  thing  I  am  quite 
satisfied  of, — whatever  papa  did,  he  did  for  the  best,  and  the 
very  cleverest  people  may  be  misled  sometimes.  I  know  this, 
that  his  life  has  been  one  long  self-abnegation  for  Curly's  sake, 
that  somewhere  in  the  future  he  may  be  able  to  hold  up  his 
head  and  take  his  own  place  in  the  county.  We  have  often 
2* 


IS  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

talked  the  (l(yir  fellow's  prospects  over,  papa  and  I,  and  we 
are  both  agreed  tliat  at  any  rate  every  sacrifice  must  be  made 
fur  him.  What  does  it  matter  about  a  girl  ?  but  a  boy,  the 
heir  to  a  good  property,  the  head  of  an  old  house,  how  //e  is 
brought  up  is  everything !  He  must  go  to  Eton,  if  papa  and 
I  live  on  rabbits  and  pork  all  the  year  round,  and  have  new 
clothes  once  in  three  years. 

And  how  we  sit  in  the  twilight,  the  dear  Dad  and  I,  talk- 
ing over  our  darling's  future,  and  of  his  sayings  and  doings 
when  he  was  last  at  home !  Sometimes  papa  says,  stroking 
my  hair  as  I  sit  at  his  feet, — 

"  Di,  my  dear,  I  don't  think  it's  quite  fair  on  you :  you 
ought  to  go  to  school,  or  have  masters  at  home,  or  do  some- 
thing for  your  education." 

"  Oh,  papa,"  I  answer,  deprecatingly,  "  I  am  sure  I  know 
as  much  as  most  girls  of  my  age.  I  have  kept  up  everything 
I  used  to  learn  with  Miss  Carter,  except"  (sighing)  "  geography 
and  arithmetic.  I  always  did  hate  those.  I  speak  pretty 
good  grammar,  don't  I,  dear?  I  write  a  decent  hand.  I  know 
enough  French  to  get  on  abroad,  if  I  ever  went  there, — which 
I  don't  suppose  I  shall.  I  can  play  pretty  well  on  the  piano, 
and  I  think"  (a  smile  of  conscious  vanity  parting  my  lips) — 
"  I  think  I  can  sing  a  little." 

"Ay,"  says  papa,  smiling,  "you  can  that;  and"  (patting 
me  on  the  shoulder)  "  I  don't  think  all  the  Italian  masters  in 
the  world  could  make  my  little  nightingale's  voice  sweeter." 

I  blush  with  pleasure :  no  praise  comes  so  sweet  to  mc  as 
my  father's.  My  voice  is  my  one  little  possession,  my  ewe- 
lamb,  the  great  delight  of  my  life.  For  hours  I  am  wont  to 
sit  at  our  old-fashioned  piano,  that  has  been  a  good  one  once, 
and,  like  all  good  things,  bears  to  the  end  the  trace  of  its 
better  days.  I  sit  and  sing  the  daylight  into  twilight,  the 
twilight  into  evening, — soiuetimes  jocund  melodies,  but  oftener 
plaintive  ones,  until  I  am  carried  out  of  myself  into  sweet 


DIANA'S  STORY.  19 

dreams  and  happy  trances  and  shadowy  griefs,  that  have  as 
yet  no  form,  but  only  guess  at  sorrow.  For  I  have  never  been 
unhappy  in  my  life. 

My  mother  died  when  I  was  too  young  to  remember  her ; 
and  papa  and  Curly  and  I  have  always  been  so  happy  together. 
Of  course  I  have  had  my  troubles  ;  for  instance,  when  Curly 
first  went  to  school,  and  once  when  Gay  was  ill ;  and  when 
miy  pet  cat  was  shot  by  the  keeper,  I  thought  my  heart  was 
broken.  Our  poverty  has  never  made  me  unhappy.  Some- 
times I  have  longed  very  much  for  things, — most  of  all  for  a 
horse  to  ride ;  but  I  always  consoled  myself  by  thinking  that 
it  was  no  good  wishing  for  what  one  could  not  have,  so  my 
desires  melted  back  into  contentment  with  my  lot.  I  have 
papa  and  Curly  and  Gay, — the  three  very  dearest  creatures  in 
the  world ;  I  have  the  handsomest  and  fliithfulest  pug  ever 
known ;  and  a  tabby  cat  lined  with  apricot,  as  Curly  describes 
its  tawny  bosom,  that  I  would  not  change  for  any  other  living 
cat. 

Que  voulez-vous  ?  One  cannot  have  everything.  I  am 
poor.  I  have  no  fine  clothes  to  wear,  no  horses  to  ride,  no 
lovers  to  flatter  jne,  but  I  am  happy,  and  Lady  Gwyneth,  who 
has  all  that  money  can  buy,  is,  by  her  own  confession,  I  have 
heard,  the  most  miserable  woman  alive. 

Apropos  of  lovers,  I  am  ashamed  almost  to  say  it,  but  I 
should,  oh,  I  should  like  to  have  a  lover ;  only  I  have  done  so 
long  without  that  I  am  afraid  I  shall  never  get  one  to  please 
me  now.  Literally  and  truthfully,  I  don't  think  I  have  spoken 
to  a  man  except  the  clergyman  and  the  doctor  since  I  was 
grown  up, — not  even  a  boy,  one  o  Curly's  scliool-fellows,  for 
naturally  enough  he  does  not  care  to  ask  them  home ;  and  I 
am  sure  it  would  put  us  all  out  very  much  to  entertain  them. 

Our  home  is  :i  fine  hands(,uie  old  place,  but  more  than  two- 
thirds  of  it  is  shut  up,  and  we  only  live  in  the  smaller  rooms, 
with  the  exception  of  the  diniiig-room,  full  of  splendid  old 


20  FOR   A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

carved  oak,  and  fomily  portraits,  ■where  we  always  take  our 
meals.  It  is  a  fine  room.  We  have  a  great  screen  put  half- 
way across,  to  make  it  less  cold  and  vast  in  the  winter.  But 
there  are  curious  contrasts  in  it.  There  is  the  grand  carved 
chimney-piece  that  rfeaches  the  ceiling,  and  the  old  brass  dogs 
on  the  hearth ;  there  are  the  numerous  portraits  of  former 
Carews  ;  there  is  the  splendid  old  sideboard  and  bookcase,  and 
the  fine  pair  of  bronzes  which  have  always  filled  my  youthful 
soul  with  admiration.  But  in  contrast  there  is  the  poor  thread- 
bare old  Turkey  carpet,  that  Gay  has  so  often  repaired  on  her 
knees  with  colored  worsteds,  until  she  has  declared  her  back 
was  fain  to  break  ;  there  are  the  old  curtains,  which  tradition 
says  were  once  magnificent  crimson  velvet,  but  which  have 
now  assumed  the  yellowish-brown  hue  one  sees  sometimes  in 
the  hangings  of  a  very  old  pulpit  in  a  very  old  church ;  the 
gilding  of  most  of  the  frames  is  very  dingy,  and  the  ceiling, 
and  what  little  is  visible  of  the  walls,  sadly  requires  paint  and 
whitewash.  The  leather  on  the  handsome  old  chairs  is  in  a 
melancholy  condition :  age  and  the  vagaries  of  numerous 
kittens  have  done  their  fell  work  upon  them,  and  now  nothing 
but  the  backs  of  them  are  really  respectable.  The  room  is 
certainly  a  wreck,  if  you  come  to  think  of  it ;  but  we  are  all 
so  used  to  it,  I  don't  believe  we  ever  do  think  of  it.  And 
then  we  don't  sit  there,  but  in  a  much  snugger  room  that  used 
to  be  the  morning-room,  and  where,  though  the  furniture  and 
the  carpet  and  the  curtains  are  old  too,  they  look  more  com- 
fortable and  homely.  I  think  papa  would  have  let  the  house 
long  ago, — the  rent  of  it  would  have  made  us  comparatively 
rich, — only  there  is  a  clause  somewhere  forbidding  it ;  and  I 
do  verily  believe  we  would  all  rather  be  poor  and  live  there 
ourselves  than  feel  it  was  in  the  hands  of  strangers. 

We  have  the  greatest  veneration  for  the  fiimily  heirlooms, 
the  old  oak  and  pictures,  and  plate  and  china,  of  which  there 
is  great  store,  and  which  once  now  and  again  Gay  allows  us  to 


DIANA'S  STORV.  21 

feast  our  eyes  upon.  I  suppose  papa  does  feel  being  poor 
dreadfully.  Gray  thinks  he  does  :  she  was  under-nurse  to  him 
when  he  was  a  baby,  and  has  lived  in  the  family  ever  since. 
But  he  nearly  always  seems  cheerful,  and  goes  about  with  his 
gun,  or  works  in  the  garden,  where  we  both  help  him,  or  sits 
in  his  study,  reading  and  writing.  He  hardly  ever  alludes  to 
our  poverty :  when  he  does,  it  is  with  such  bitter  sadness,  it 
makes  my  heart  bleed  for  him.  Dear,  darling  father !  I  do 
believe  he  blames  himself,  and  thinks  that  we  are  suffering 
from  his  fault;  and  I  long  sometimes  to  throw  my  arms  round 
his  neck  and  tell  him  how  satisfied  we  are.  Curly  and  I;  that 
all  he  has  done  was  for  the  very  best,  only  I  would  not  have 
him  think  there  had  ever  been  even  question  of  it  in  our 
minds.  Why  should  he  feel  so  dreadfully  for  us,  when  I  am 
sure  we  do  not  for  ourselves  ?  Curly  is  as  happy  as  the  day  is 
long;  what  boy  is  not  at  Eton? — and  he  is  always  thoroughly- 
delighted  to  come  home, — poor  though  home  may  be.  He 
knows  there  dre  no  hearts  elsewhere  that  beat  so  lovingly  and 
tenderly  for  him.  As  for  me,  I  am  never  idle  a  moment,  so  I 
cannot  be  unhappy  ;  what  with  my  household  cares, — and 
really  a  good  deal  of  contriving  is  required  to  make  ends  meet, 
to  provide  not  only  for  our  own  small  household,  but  for  the 
sick  and  poor  who  often  stand  in  need  of  our  help,  and  rather 
than  send  whom  empty  away,  papa  would  go  dinnerless  him- 
self 

Then  there  are  all  my  pets  to  be  looked  after, — my  cat  and 
kittens,  the  two  retrievers,  my  pug,  Curly's  ferrets  to, be  taken 
for  their  daily  airing.  They  are  as  friendly  and  affectionate 
as  the  kittens,  and  I  might  like  them  better  if  their  coats  did 
not  exhale  such  a.  very  pungent  odor.  Then  there  is  my  old 
pony  Tommy,  whom  I  ride  and  drive,  and  make  a  general 
convenience  of,  and  my  devotion  to  whom  is  not  one  whit 
lessened  by  my  contempt  for  his  powers  and  appearance.  Poor 
old  fellow !  he  is  twenty-one, — just  of  age,  we  laugh  and  say. 


22  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

and  be  is  more  often  turned  out  than  not.  AVhat  can  you 
expect  ?  Our  cstablislinient  consists  of  Gay,  the  cook,  and  a 
very  young  housemaid  and  parlor-maid  combined,  who  is  a 
thorn  in  Gay's  side,  and  more  plague  to  her,  as  she  is  wont 
irritably  to  aver,  than  if  she  had  to  do  the  whole  of  the  work 
herself.  It  is  a  come-down  for  the  Carews,  I  suppose  ;  but  I 
do  not  remember  anything  different :  so  it  troubles  me  but 
very  little.  I  have  my  ideas  of  love,  riches,  and  grandeur, 
but  they  are  mostly  derived  from  historical  novels  and  Gay's 
old  stories,  certainly  not  from  any  experience  I  have  had  of 
any  one  of  them. 

I  am  not  going  to  pretend  for  an  instant  that  I  never  think 
about  my  personal  appearance,  nor  speculate  upon  my  looks, 
nor  what  effect  they  are  likely  to  produce  upon  the  other  sex, 
when  they  are  blessed  with  a  sight  of  me.  I  do  not  believe 
there  is  a  girl  living  who  is  utterly  devoid  of  the  instinct  of 
vanity.  Often  and  often  I  have  sat  before  the  glass  and 
arranged  my  hair  in  different  fashions,  and  tried  on  the  old 
brocaded  gowns  of  my  grandmother,  which  I  have  coaxed 
Gay  to  lend  me  for  an  afternoon ;  and  once  I  was  so  well 
satisfied  with  my  appearance  that  I  could  not  resist  the 
impulse  of  running  down  to  show  myself  to  papa,  though  I 
fully  expected  to  be  called  a  vain  puss  for  my  pains.  There 
is  a  portrait  in  the  dining-room  of  one  Diana  Carew  (I  know 
not  exactly  what  ancestress  of  mine),  gorgeously  attired  in 
blue  and  white  brocade,  with  pearls  twisted  in  her  dark  hair. 

It  was  .one  wet  autumn  afternoon,  and  I  was  sitting  at  Gay's 
feet  as  she  darned  the  eternal  stockings,  and  she  was  regaling 
me  with  stories  of  our  departed  glories  . 

"  I've  got  the  very  gownd  put  away  up-stairs  as  Miss  Diana, 
that  was  your  great — no,  it  must  have  been  great-great — well, 
I'm  not  certain,  so  I'll  say  your  great-grand-aunt — was 
painted  in." 

"  What !"  I  cry,  rising  excitedly  to  my  feet.     "  You  wicked, 


DIANA'S  STORF.  23 

unkind,  good-for-notliing  old  creature! — and  you  have  never 
shown  it  to  me  all  this  time!  I  have  a  great  mind  to  shake 
you"  (standing  threateningly  over  her). 

"  Well"  (with  a  benevolent  smile,  and  no  appearance  of 
fear  on  her  kind  old  face),  "  I  always  thought  I  would  keep 
it  as  a  treat ;  so  now,  if  you  like"  (taking  her  hand  out  of 
the  foot  of  the  stocking),  "  I'll  get  my  keys,  and  you  shall 
have  the  treat,  my  dear." 

So,  preceded  by  my  impatient  footsteps,  with  the  pug  follow- 
ing excitedly  at  my  heels,  she  ascends  the  broad  staircase, 
traverses  the  long  gallery,  and  unlocks  the  door  of  one  of  the 
principal  bedrooms. 

"  Faugh  !"  I  say,  holding  my  nose,  "  how  fusty  it  smells  !" 

"  Ah !"  responds  Gay,  who  always  has  a  reminiscence  for 
every  disparaging  remark  of  mine,  "  it  wasn't  fusty  when  the 
Duke  and  Duchess  of  Blankshire  slept  here  the  night  of 
your  papa's  coming  of  age.  Well  I  mind  saying,  as  I  went 
in  to  look  at  it  before  their  Graces  arrived,  I'd  be  bound  they 
didn't  sleep  in  a  handsomer  room  at  home." 

"  Hm  !"  I  say,  with  a  doubtful  glance  around  me,  as  she 
undoes  a  shutter  and  lets  in  the  daylight. 

It  is  a  vast  and  lofty  room.  An  enormous  oak  bedstead, 
with  lions  couchant  at  the  foot,  stands  in  the  centre ;  a  gigan- 
tic wardrobe  lines  nearly  one  side ;  all  the  furniture  gives  one 
an  idea  of  having  been  made  for  a  larger  race  of  men.  There 
is  no  carpet  on  the  polished  floor,  the  old,  heavy-framed  mir- 
rors are  dim  and  lustreless,  and  altogether  the  room,  in  spite  of 
its  gloomy  grandeur,  has  a  wreck-like  appearance.  My  voice 
sounds  preternaturally  loud  and  hollow  as  I  make  unflattering 
comments  upon  the  furniture  generally  and  particularly. 

I  wait  with  breathless  eagerness  as  Gay  unlocks  the  wide 
door  of  the  wardrobe,  pulls  out  the  heavy  drawers,  and  pro- 
ceeds to  unfold  from  its  numerous  wrappings  the  treasure  my 
eyes  desire  to  behold. 


2-4  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"  There,"  she  says,  triumphantly,  as,  having  taken  off  the 
last  fold  of  silver  paper,  she  holds  it  before  my  longing  eyes. 

"  It's  very  scanty,"  I  remark,  disparagingly. 

"  Well,  my  dear"  (tartly),  "  when  gownds  was  made  of 
such  splendid  material,  they  didn't  want  to  cover  them  all 
over  with  flounces  and  furbelows.  It'll  stand  by  itself,  this 
will." 

"  Nearly,"  I  assent.  "  It  is  handsome,  certainly"  (regard- 
ing the  stiff  brocade  with  my  head  on  one  side).  "  Nurse,  I 
shall  try  it  on." 

But  Gray  regards  my  proposition  almost  in  the  light  of  sac- 
rilege. However,  after  infinite  coaxing,  I  get  not  only  her 
permission  but  her  help.  Rapture !  It  fits  me  as  if  it  had 
been  made  for  me.  I  rush  off  to  my  own  room.  Gay  loudly 
expostulating  at  my  heels.  There  I  build  my  hair  up  on 
high  after  the  manner  of  Miss  Diana  below-stairs,  twist  a 
string  of  mock  pearls  I  possess  among  other  treasures  through 
it,  and,  this  done,  survey  myself  with  extreme  content  in  the 
long  glass  which  hangs  on  the  wall  of  my  room. 

"  Well,  to  be  sure !"  says  Gay,  in  a  voice  wherein  surprise 
and  admiration  contend  for  mastery.  "  Any  one  might  think 
you'd  just  stepped  out  of  the  picture  !" 

"Would  not  they?"  I  exclaim,  in  great  glee,  parading  up 
and  down  in  my  creamy  train  and  sky-blue  bunched-up  tunic, 
not  at  all  so  unlike  the  fashion  of  to-day.  "  I  shall  go  and 
show  myself  to  papa." 

"  No,  don't  you,  now.  Miss  Di !  don't  you !"  entreats  Gay. 
"  Your  papa  might  be  displeased  with  me." 

"  Did  you  ever  know  him  displeased  in  your  life,  you  old 
goose?"  I  cry,  gayly,  eluding  her  grasp,  and  rushing  off  as 
well  as  my  train  will  permit,  the  pug  in  full  pursuit. 

"You'll  sile  the  bottom  on  those  stairs!"  cries  Gay  after 
me,  in  an  agonized  tone.  "  That  Sally  never  half  does  them 
down." 


DIANA'S  STORY.  25 

But  I  am  already  outside  the  study  door.  It  is  getting 
dusk,  twilight  is  creeping  on  at  least  half  an  hour  before 
its  time  this  dull  afternoon,  and  I  quietly  open  the  door,  and 
with  a  low  step,  and  .somewhat  beating  heart,  advance  to  my 
father.  He  looks  up  with  a  bewildered  glance  ;  then  a  curi- 
ous look  comes  into  his  face,  a  proud,  fond,  tender  kind  of 
smile,  then  he  puts  his  hand  before  his  eyes,  and,  rising 
abruptly,  turns  to  the  window. 

I  grow  red  and  pale  by  turns.  What  have  I  done  ?  Why 
is  he  so  moved  ?  A  thousand  thoughts  flash  through  my 
mind  in  an  instant.  Have  I  reminded  him  of  my  mother  ? 
But  no  ;   Curly  is  like  her.     I  take  after  him. 

".,0h,  papa,"  I  cry,  running  towards  him,  "  I  am  so  sorry ! 
Have  I  vexed  you  ?" 

"  Vexed  me  !"  he  answers,  turning  and  stretching  out  his 
arms,  to  which  I  fly.  "  No,  indeed,  child.  But  when  I  see" 
(his  voice  trembling)  "  how  well  fine  clothes  become  my  little 
girl,  it  makes  me  grieve  to  think  that  but  for  my  folly  she 
would  have  had  them  to  wear  always." 

*'  Oh,  papa,  why  do  you  say  such  things  ?  I  hate  fine 
clothes  !"  I  cry,  passionately.  "  Horrid,  uncomfortable,  stiff, 
ugly  things !  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  wear  them  often.  I 
will  run  and  get  out  of  them  as  quickly  as  I  can." 

As  I  go  crestfallenly  up-stairs,  I  hate  myself  for  my  stupid, 
unseemly  joke ;  my  vanity  has  melted  into  shame  and  regret. 
Probably  my  feelings  are  depicted  on  my  face,  for,  as  I  enter 
my  bedroom,  Gay,  who  is  awaiting  me,  says,  reproachfully, — 

"  There,  now.  Miss  Di !  I  told  you  your  papa  wouldn't  like 
it." 

I  tear  off  my  finery  in  a  rage,  and  fling  it  on  the  bed, 
where  Gay  pats  and  pulls  it  out  apologetically.  Then  I  bury 
my  face  in  my  pillow  and  cry  bitterly. 


26  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 


CHAPTER    III. 


DIANA  S    STORY. 


The  eventful  day  arrives.  All  obstacles  have  been  sur- 
mounted, even  the  important  one  of  my  dress,  though  I  must 
confess  the  ten  pounds  did  not  go  nearly  so  far  as  I  had  ex- 
pected. However,  I  am  equipped  so  that  no  one  can  carp 
very  much  at  my  attire,  and  the  reflection  that  gives  me  the 
greatest  satisfaction  is,  that  my  clothes  are  undeniably  well 
made,  and  fit  to  perfection.  Elise  herself  could  not  have 
done  more  for  my  figure.  It  so  happens  that  the  daughter  of 
an  old  servant,  who  lived  with  the  family  in  its  palmy  days, 
is  home  for  her  holiday.  She  is  lady's  maid  in  what  her 
mother  is  pleased  to  term  a  very  grand  family,  and,  as  we 
have  always  kept  up  friendly  relations,  Hester  has  most  good- 
naturedly  offered,  on  hearing  of  my  projected  visit,  to  make 
my  dresses.  AVhen  she  brings  them  home  I  am  so  dazzled 
with  the  magnitude  of  my  possessions  that  Hester  is  obliged 
to  give  me  a  good-natured  hint  not  to  be  too  much  elated  until 
I  have  seen  the  splendor  of  the  other  guests. 

Warring-ton  Hall  is  ten  miles  distant,  and  we  have  post- 
horses  from  the  neighboring  town  piit  to  our  old  brougham 
(another  dreadful  expense,  I  think,  lugubriously). 

Curly  is  in  tremendous  spirits,  which  I  cannot  say  I  al- 
together share.  I  feel  rather  frightened,  and  a  little  sad,  fur 
I  have  never  left  papa  before.  My  eyes  are  so  dim  I  can 
hardly  see  his  dear,  kind  face,  as  he  comes  to  see  us  off,  and 
wishes  us  a  cheery  good-by  and  a  pleasant  visit. 

"  Oh,  Curly,  how  dull  papa  will  be  without  us !"  I  say,  in 
a  melancholy  voice,  as  we  turn  away  from  the  door. 


DIANA'S  STORY.  27 

"Not  he;  he  is  delighted  we  are  going.  It  is  just  the 
very  thing  he  wished  for  you :  he  told  me  so  this  morning. 
I  say,  Di,  let's  look  at  you.     What  a  swell  you  are !" 

"  Am  I  not?"  (proudly  glancing  down  at  myself  with  con- 
siderable satisfaction).  "  But  I  dare  say,"  I  add,  mindful  of 
Hester's  warning, — "  I  dare  say  I  shall  not  think  much  of 
myself  when  I  see  the  others." 

"  Oh,"  replies  Curly,  patronizingly,  "  girls  can't  be  expected 
to  dress  like  married  women,  which  I  expect  they'll  mostly 
be;  and  you  look  like  a  lady,  and  that's  the  great  thing." 

"  Curly,"  I  hazard,  presently,  as,  though  he  is  nearly  two 
years  my  junior,  I  look  up  to  him  in  compliment  to  his  having 
seen  a  great  deal  more  of  the  world,  "  do  you  feel  at  all  nerv- 
ous?" 

"  Nervous  !"   (with  considerable  scorn).     "  What  about?" 

"  Of  course"  (apologetically)  "  you've  stayed  in  big  houses 
before,  but  I  haven't;  and.  Curly,  dear"  (blushing),  "if  you 
should  see  me  do  anything  awkward,  or  not  quite  right,  you'll 
be  sure  and  tell  me,  won't  you  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  will ;  but  you've  only  got  to  be  natural," 
responds  my  young  brother,  oracularly,  "  and  do  just  as  you 
would  at  home." 

I  feel  rather  doubtful  about  the  last  part  of  the  sentence, 
remembering  how  I  am  wont  to  scamper  about  the  house,  race  up- 
stairs two  and  three  at  a  time,  sing  at  the  top  of  my  voice,  and 
give  my  opinion  freely  and  unhesitatingly  upon  every  subject. 

"  I  wonder  who  will  be  there,"  I  say. 

"  Oh,  the  Desboroughs,  most  likely,  and  perhaps  some  of 
the  Montagus ;  or  they  rnay  not  have  any  county  people  at 
all.  I  don't  know,  I  should  think  Lady  Gwyneth  will  be 
there.     She  and  old  Warrington  are  great  allies." 

"  I  hope  she  will.     I  want  to  see  her,"  I  reply. 

We  have  arrived.  From  the  cold  and  darkness  we  are 
ushered  into  a  blaze  of  warmth  and  light.     My  shyness  pre- 


28  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

vents  me  from  iiKustcriiig  any  details  at  first.  I  only  know 
that  my  dazzled  senses  are  filled  with  new  ideas  of  luxury, 
comfort,  costliness.  A  soft,  rose-colored  light  pervades  the 
room,  there  is  a  delicate  scent  of  hothouse  flowers,  and  round 
the  blazing  fire  is  a  large  group  of  people,  talking  with  con- 
siderable animation.  Out  from  the  group,  from  behind  a 
shining  silver  tea-service,  a  tall,  gracious-looking  woman  comes 
towards  me, — not  young,  but  still  handsome,  and  with  an  un- 
mistakable air  of  grandc  damc^  that  even  unsophisticated  I 
recognize  at  once.  She  greets  us  with  kindly  warmth,  draws 
me  forward  to  the  circle  round  the  fire,  utters  a  few  words  of 
presentation  to  the  rest  of  the  company,  which  I  am  too  nerv- 
ous to  gather,  and  seats  herself  beside  me  on  a  sofa. 

"  I  am  so  disappointed  you  have  not  brought  your  father," 
she  whispers,  kindly.  "  You  must  entice  him  out  a  Kttle  by 
degrees :  we  cannot  have  Carew  Court  made  into  a  hermitage, 
such  a  gay,  pleasant  house  as  it  used  to  be."  And  then  she 
asks  me  about  the  journey,  and  in  a  few  minutes  I  begin  to 
feel  at  home,  and  my  first  agony  of  shyness  subsides.  The 
rest  of  the  party  have  relapsed  into  their  cheery  talk;  the 
charmed  circle  has  another  addition  in  Curly,  who  is  perfectly 
at  his  ease.  "  Hector,"  says  Mrs.  Warrington,  presently,  "  will 
you  pour  IMiss  Carew  out  a  cup  of  tea?" 

A  tall  dark  man  separates  himself  from  the  rest  and  obeys 
IMrs.  Warrington's  behest.  When  he  brings  it  I  am  intro- 
duced to  him.  "  My  dear,  let  me  introduce  Mr.  Montagu  to 
you.  Hector,  this  is  a  neighbor  of  yours  as  well  as  ours. 
Miss  Carew." 

Mr.  Montagu  sits  down  on  the  other  side  of  me.  He  has 
a  distinguished  face,  though  not  exactly  a  handsome  one  ;  but 
there  is  something  awe-inspiring  about  him.  I  feel  afraid  of 
him.  He  wears  a  cold,  almost  contemptuous  expression,  and 
yet  now  he  smiles  it  is  not  an  unpleasant  face,  rather  the 
reverse  ;  but  I  do  not  feel  at  ease  with  him.     He  utters  a  few 


DIANA'S  STORY.  29 

cold,  civil  words  to  me,  and,  to  my  cliagrin,  Mrs.  Warrington 
leaves  us  and  goes  out  of  the  room.  Is  it  possible  that  my 
face  betrays  my  feelings  ?  Mr.  Montagu  fixes  his  keen  eyes 
upon  me,  and  his  mouth  curves  with  a  smile  that  is  by  no 
means  a  genial  one. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid,"  he  says,  in  a  low  voice ;  "I  dare  say 
Mrs.  Warrington  will  soon  return." 

To  say  that  I  am  embarrassed  is  to  give  but  poor  and  inad- 
equate expression  to  the  confusion  that  covers  me.  Seeing 
it,  he  adds,  hastily, — 

"  I  was  only  joking ;  but  indeed  you  did  look  frightened. 
People  are  rather  by  way  of  being  afraid  of  me  at  first,  but 
really  and  truly"  (laughing)  "  I  am  not  so  awful  as  I  look." 

"  Mr.  Montagu,"  says  a  dark,  imperious-looking  woman  at 
this  moment,  "  as  Mrs.  Warrington  has  delegated  the  duty 
of  pouring  out  tea  to  you,  perhaps  you  will  come  and  attend 
to  my  wants." 

There  is  another  man  at  her  elbow,  doing  nothing ;  but  I 
am  veiy  glad  to  have  Mr.  Montagu's  attention  distracted  from 
me.  He  rises,  not  very  graciously,  and  I,  being  left  to  myself, 
take  the  opportunity  of  making  a  closer  inspection  of  my 
entourage.  The  pleasant,  becoming  light  issues  from  two  rose- 
shaded  lamps,  the  delicate  odors  from  a  profusion  of  choice 
flowers  scattered  liberally  about  the  frequent  tables,  the  hearth 
is  piled  with  blazing  logs,  every  object  glows  with  rich  warm 
tints.  The  thick  carpet,  that  feels  like  a  well-kept  lawn  to 
my  unaccustomed  feet,  is  crimson,  the  hangings  and  furniture 
are  a  lovely  shade  of  blue,  the  doors  and  cornices  are  black 
and  gold,  of  which  there  are  also  quaint-shaped  tables  and 
ornaments.  You  can  scarcely  see  the  creamy  walls  for  the 
little  gems  of  pictures  in  heavy  gold  frames,  the  mirrors, 
velvet  brackets,  china  plates,  vases,  cups  and  saucers  that 
cover  them.-  An  immense  tiger-skin  rug  lies  in  front  of  the 
fire,  and  there  are  draped  velvet  curtains  to  the  mantel-piece. 

3* 


30  FOR   A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

Incidentally  I  observe  the  rest  of  the  party.  The  small 
fair  woman  in  a  riding-habit,  talking  volubly  and  laughing 
rather  loudly,  is  of  course  Lady  Gwyneth  Desborough.  She 
has  fair  hair,  cut  short  like  a  boy's,  a  retrousse  nose,  and 
scarcely  that  aristocratic  air  and  tone  I  should  have  expected 
from  an  earl's  daughter. 

At  this  period  of  my  life,  utterly  untaught  by  experience, 
my  ideas  savor  somewhat  of  foregone  conclusions.  I  imagine 
that  all  people  of  noble  birth' must  have  distinguished  man- 
ners and  perfect  breeding;  just  as  I  am  persuaded  all  clergy- 
men must  be  pious,  all  women  modest,  all  servants  respectful, 
and  so  on.  I  do  not  particularly  admire  Lady  Gwyneth,  nor 
docs  she  seem  to  me  very  lady-like,  in  spite  of  her  birth.  It 
may  bo  difficult  to  manage  a  habit  gracefully  in  the  room,  but 
she  need  not  sit  CTOss-legged,  and  lean  back,  with  one  arm 
thrown  over  the  sofa :  indeed,  she  looks  more  like  a  very  small 
man  than  a  woman.  She  is  talking  with  the  utmost  anima- 
tion to  two  or  three  men,  and  employing,  to  say  the  least  of  it, 
very  technical  terms :  the  subject  is  the  day's  run. 

I  feel  rather  glad  papa  is  not  here.  I  think  I  should  feel 
a  little  ashamed  if  he  were.  The  lady  who  has  summoned 
Mr.  Montagu  from  my  side  is  dark  and  handsome,  though 
very  slight  and  thin.  She  is  magnificently  dressed  in  dark- 
green  velvet  and  fur,  which  well  becomes  her  imperial  air. 
Her  dark  brows  nearly  meet  over  her  large  eyes,  giving  a  dis- 
satisfied, almost  angry  look  to  the  face  that  wellnigh  amounts 
to  a  scowl.  Then  there  is  a  pretty,  fair  girl,  who  has  been 
engaged  in  deepest  conversation  with  a  long-moustached  man 
ever  since  I  came  in.  They  are  sitting  rather  apart  from  the 
rest :  it  occurs  to  me  that  they  must  be  engaged. 

There  are  five  men  present ;  I  do  not  know  who  they  are, 
in  spite  of  Mrs.  Warrington's  introduction.  There  is  only 
one  in  whom  I  feel  much  int.'rcst.  He  is  talking  to  Lady 
Gwyneth  ;  and  once  or  twice  our  eyes  have  met, — such  kind, 


DIANA'S  STORY.  31 

pleasant  eyes,  thougli  I  cannot  see  the  eolor.  The  rest  of  the 
face  is  not  exactly  handsome,  but  it  is  the  face  of  a  thorough 
gentleman.  Behind  him  is  an  insignificant  little  man,  whom 
I  take  to  be  Mr.  Desborough,  from  the  contemptuous  looks 
and  words  that  Lady  Gwyneth  now  and  again  throws  at 
him  when  he  presumes  to  join  in  her  conversation.  He  is 
at  this  moment  making  some  remark  about  his  prowess  in 
the  hunting-field ;  she  breaks  in  in  a  rasping,  contemptuous 
voice : 

"  You  as  near  as  possible  brought  Lady-love  to  grief  to-day ; 
if  you  had  quite,  I  should  have  discharged  Stevens  without  a, 
character,  for  putting  you  upon  her  with  that  bit." 

Involuntarily  my  eyes  open  and  my  mouth  falls.  Is  that 
the  way  women  in  society  talk  to  their  husbands  ?  I  expect 
him  to  make  some  furious  reply, — her  tone  has  made  even  my 
neutral  blood  boil, — but  he  only  turns  away  with  a  cowed, 
uneasy  laugh.  Involuntarily  I  look  at  my  friend  with  the 
kind  eyes  (I  don't  know  why  I  should  call  him  my  friend, 
though,  since  we  have  not  yet  exchanged  one  word) :  they 
meet  mine  with  a  half-amused,  half-disgusted  smile, — the 
former,  I  suppose,  called  forth  by  the  expression  of  amazement 
on  my  face,  which  I  hastily  endeavor  to  modify. 

Mr.  Montagu,  having  performed  the  duties  required  of  him, 
returns  to  my  side. 

"  A  nice  civil  little  speech  that  of  Lady  Gwyncth's  to  her 
lord,  was  it  not  ?"  he  whispers.  "  Is  that  the  way  you  will 
treat  the  victim  of  your  bow  and  spear?" 

I  look  up  at  him. 

"  You  seem  to  have  the  gift  of  reading  my  face,"  I  answer, 
with  rather  an  injured  air.  "  Do  you  think  I  shall?  Do  I 
look  as  if  I  should?"- 

He  smiles ;  it  is  not  a  sneer  this  time. 

"  I  don't  think  you  would,  though  your  eyes  look  quite 
capable  of  holding  their  own.     Lady  Gwyneth  docs  not  look 


32  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

like  a  vixen ;  we  are  all  very  much  creatures  of  circumstance, 
and  Dc.sboroue;h  is  irritating." 

"  Why  did  she  marry  him  ? — she  could  never  have  liked 
him,"  I  say,  and  then  am  overtaken  with  a  horror  lest  I  have 
been  indiscreet. 

"  At  your  age  of  course  you  think  all  marriages  should  be 
love-matches,"  he  says,  eying  me  with  a  certain  curiosity. 

"  Yes — no — I  do  not  know  !"  I  stammer. 

"  Well,  there  is  a  couple  of  whom  you  will  quite  approve" 
(indicating  with  liis  eyes  the  pair  whom  I  have  already  spec- 
ulated upon)  :  "  they  are  very  much  in  love,  and  will  not  have 
five  hundred  a  year  between  them." 

This  sum  does  not  seem  so  appallingly  small  to  me  as  it 
evidently  does  to  him.  Realizing  this  by  a  glance  at  my 
face,  he  continues,  hastily  : 

"  What  do  you  think  of  Mrs.  Huntingdon  ?" 

"  The  lady  in  green  velvet  ?" 

"  Is  it  green  ?  I  thought  it  was  black.  She  is  handsome, 
is  she  not?" 

"  Yes,"  I  answer,  trying  to  keep  my  voice  under  control 
this  time,  "  very." 

"  Rather  a  hard  face?" 

"  She  is  very  handsome,"  I  say,  resolved  not  to  give  an 
opinion  adverse  to  any  of  the  party. 

"  That  is  her  husband,  Major  Huntingdon,  just  going  to 
stir  the  fire.     They  are  another  attached  couple." 

"  Who  is  that  talking  to  Lady  Grwyneth  ?"  I  ask,  plucking 
up  courage  to  ask  the  question  I  have  been  dying  to  put  for 
the  last  ten  minutes. 

"  The  best  fellow  living, — a  very  old  friend  of  mine, — 
Fane, — Colonel  Rochester  Fane.  His  sister  is  coming  to- 
morrow,— the  nicest  woman  in  the  world.  I  am  very  glad 
for  your  sake  she  is  coming,  for  I  hardly  know  whom  you 
would  have  to  fraternize  with  else.     Nelly  Gore  is  too  wrapped 


DIANA'S  STORY.  33 

up  in  her  soldier ;  and  I  don't  think  you  will  take  much  to 
Lady  Gwyneth  or  Mrs.  Huntingdon." 

"  Nor  they  to  me,"  I  hazard. 

"  Nor  they  to  you,"  he  acquiesces.  "  1  should  be  rather 
sorry"  (looking  at  me  kindly)  "  if  they  did." 

"  My  dear,  will  you  not  like  to  see  your  room  ?"  says  Mrs. 
Warrington,  coming  up  to  me.  And,  I  assenting,  she  carries 
Die  oiF  to  a  charming  little  room,  all  white  lace  and  pink  rib- 
bons, with  pretty  pictures  hung  upon  the  walls,  and  a  hundred 
elegant  nieknacks  disposed  about. 

I  cannot  but  give  vent  to  my  hearty  admiration. 

"  Do  you  like  it,  my  dear  ?  I  am  very  glad,"  she  says, 
kindly.  And  then  she  draws  me  to  her  and  kisses  me,  and 
a  mist  comes  across  my  eyes.  "  Your  brother's  room  is 
next  door,"  she  tells  me ;  "  I  thought  you  would  like  to  be 
together." 

When  she  is  gone,  I  sit  down  by  the  fire  and  begin  to 
think.  How  strange,  how  refined,  how  luxurious  this  new 
life  to  which  I  am  suddenly  introduced  seems !  I  look  around 
me,  and  then  summon  up  the  vision  of  my  own  bare  room  at 
home,  with  its  strips  of  faded  carpet,  its  old  though  clean 
dimity  hangings,  and  its  ponderous  furniture. 

"  Never  mind,  dear,  darling  old  home,"  I  say  to  myself,  as 
if  it  were  feeling  a  pang  at  my  comparison,  "  I  love  you  ten 
times  better  than  any  other  place,  though  the  walls  were  gold 
and  it  was  paved  with  diamonds.     You  hold  all  I  love." 

But  all  the  same  I  busy  my  brain  to  think  whether  I  can- 
not take  a  few  hints  away  from  Warrington  for  the  beautify- 
ing and  Improving  of  our  house. 

My  reflections  are  disturbed  by  Curly  coming  into  the 
adjoining  room.     I  try  the  door  of  communication  between  us. 

"Who's  there?"  he  shouts. 

"  It's  me, — Di,"  I  answer. 

"  Hooray  !     Wait  a  minute ;  there's  a  key  on  this  fiide." 

B* 


34  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

And  in  a  moment  wc  are  comparing  notes  on  the  magnificence 
of  our  respective  apartments. 

Curly's  room  is  very  much  like  mine,  except  that  his  walls 
are  adorned  with  pictures  of  horses  and  dogs. 

"  This  is  fine  ! — isn't  it  ?"  he  cries,  delightedly,  giving  me 
a  hug.  "  How  do  you  feel,  Di?  Aren't  you  enjoying  your- 
self immensely?" 

"  Well,  not  exactly"  (doubtfully).  "  You  see,  I  have 
hardly  spoken  to  any  one  but  Mrs.  Warrington  yet.  I  love 
her,  but  I  don't  think  I  shall  care  much  about  the  other 
women.'' 

"  Oh,  Lady  Gwyneth  is  awfully  jolly." 

"  Is  she  ?"  I  answer,  dryly.  "  I  shouldn't  have  thought  she 
was  an  earl's  daughter." 

"  What !"  he  says,  laughing,  "  did  you  suppose  earl's  daugh- 
ters talked  blank  verse  in  the  bosoms  of  their  families  ?  My 
dear  little  Di,  you'll  find  them  very  much  like  other  people" 
(with  an  air  of  superiority). 

"  Rather  more  vulgar,  perhaps  ?"  I  suggest. 

"  Vulgar  ! — not  a  bit  of  it.  You  don't  know  anything 
about  society.     People  always  talk  in  that  sort  of  way." 

"  Do  they  ?  Well,  I  must  dress,  or  I  shall  be  late,"  I  say, 
shutting  the  door.  "  Curly,  he  sure  you  don't  go  down  with- 
out me." 

"  All  right.  I  say"  (through  the  door)  "  shall  I  part  my 
hair  down  the  middle,  or  on  one  side  ?" 

"  Down  the  middle,"  I  reply,  promptly. 

"You  don't  think  I  shall  look  too  much  like  a  girl?" 
(anxiously). 

"  I   think    you   will   look   more   like   a   girl    than    Lady . 
Gwyneth,"  I  say,  maliciously,     "  She  wears  hers  on  one  side, 
you  know." 

I  do  not  catch  Curly's  rejoinder,  but  the  tone  sounds  rather 
cross. 


DIANA'S  STORY.  35 

"  Never  mind,  dear  boy,"  I  say,  humbly,  opening  the  door 
again.     "  I  did  not  mean  to  vex  you." 

"  Of  course  not,"  he  rejoins,  heartily.  "  Look  alive,  Di, 
or  you'll  be  late." 

I  feel  a  very  small  individual  when  we  are  all  assembled  in 
the  handsome  amber  drawing-room  and  I  see  the  toilettes  of 
the  other  women.  Lady  Gwyneth  looks  very  different  from 
what  she  did  an  hour  ago,  and  I  must  confess  there  is  a  little 
something  of  the  grande  dame  about  her.  She  is  dressed 
entii-ely  in  white, — the  softest,  finest  muslin  and  lace.  I  know 
very  little  about  lace,  except  that  this  is  Valenciennes,  and 
from  the  quantity  and  quality  must  be  very  costly.  It  is 
quite  the  loveliest  dress  I  have  ever  seen.  Mrs.  Huntingdon 
is  simply  gorgeous.  She  wears  a  pale  greenish-blue  satin 
trimmed  with  humming-birds'  breasts  and  beetles'  wings.  Miss 
Gore,  too,  is  elegant.  But,  though  my  dress  is  plain  com- 
pared with  the  others,  thanks  to  Hester,  I  do  not  feel  dowdy. 
I  am  introduced  to  my  host.  He  is  a  loud-voiced,  jolly-look- 
ing man, — quite  in  the  English  squire  style,  or,  rather,  what 
I  imagine  it  to  be.  He  greets  us  both  very  kindly  and  cor- 
dially, particularly  Curly,  whom  he  has  seen  before. 

Dinner  is  announced,  and  I  am  taken  in  by  Major  Hun- 
tingdon. Here  new  surprises  await  me.  It  seems  like  a 
series  of  enchantments.  I  feel  as  Aladdin  must  have  done  in 
the  magician's  cave.  So  occupied  am  I  with  looking  and 
wondering  at  all  I  see,  that  I  scarcely  hear  my  neighbor's 
civil  little  remarks,  and  reply  no  doubt  in  a  very  mal  a  propos 
manner.  But  as  soon  as  he  is  served  with  soup  he  gives  mc 
up,  and  I  may  make  my  observations  at  my  leisure.  The 
table  gives  me  at  least  ten  minutes'  occupation, — the  lovely 
flowers  and  exquisite  glass  ornaments^  the  glistening  gold  and 
silver  plate.  I  think  of  papa  sitting  down  alone  to  his  meagre, 
unbeautiful  meal  in  our  dull,  bare  dining-room,  /will  have 
flowers  on  the  table,  I  say  to  myself.     We  have  plenty  of 


36  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

handsome  china  vases,  and  I  might  have  our  little  homely 
dessert  decorated  with  pretty  leaves  and  berries.  The  warmth, 
the  light,  the  laughter,  all  seem  wonderfully  pleasant  to  me ; 
most  of  all  I  love  to  catch  Curly's  ringing  voice.  He  is  sit- 
ting by  Lady  Gwyneth.  I  heard  her  ask  Mr.  Warrington  to 
put  him  next  her,  and,  though  I  feel  a  sort  of  instinctive 
dislike  to  her,  I  am  glad  that  she  is  kind  to  him,  since  it 
makes  him  happy. 

The  pictures  on  the  wall,  the  rich  draperies,  the  numerous 
servants  in  their  handsome  liveries,  all  come  in  for  my  obser- 
vation and  admiration  ;  as  for  the  butler,  I  firmly  believe, 
from  his  distinguished  manners,  that  he  is  a  gentleman  in 
reduced  circumstances.  I  should  not  be  surprised  to  hear  he 
had  been  a  clergyman  :  he  pours  out  the  wine  very  nuich  as 
though  he  were  performing  some  sacred  rite.  Major  Hun- 
tingdon has  quite  given  me  up :  he  is  absorbed  in  his  dinner. 
Most  of  the  men,  I  notice,  take  a  kindly  interest  in  the  busi- 
ness on  hand  ;  some  of  the  ladies,  also,  are  not  wholly  indif- 
ferent to  or  disdainful  of  it. 


CHAPTER    IV. 


DIANA  S   STORY. 


Presently  I  am  aware  that  the  squeaky  little  voice  of 
my  other  neighbor,  Mr.  Desborough,  is  addressing  me.  His 
conversation  is  by  no  means  entertaining;  it  consists  solely 
and  entirely  of  the  sayings  and  doings  of  the  Upper  Ten,  with 
which  the  humblest  village  girl  could  not  be  less  acquainted 
than  myself.  He  gives  me  a  considerable  amount  of  informa- 
tion about  various  members  of  the  aristocracy, — what  the 


DIANA'S  STORY.  37 

Duke  of  this  said,  how  his  father-in4aw  the  earl  did  so  and 
so,  and  a  good  deal  about  his  sisters-in-law,  Lady  Bell,  Lady 
Hyacinth,  and  Lady  Audrey.  I  am  quite  ignorant  of  the 
ways  of  society,  but  it  does  not  strike  me  as  particularly  well- 
bred  to  bore  a  person  with  pointless  anecdotes  about  people 
they  never  saw  or  heard  of,  nor  do  I  imagine  a  constant  inter- 
larding of  the  conversation  with  people's  titles  to  be  a  proof 
of  blue  blood.  Mr.  Desborough's  antecedents  are  unknown 
to  me,  but,  whatever  they  may  be,  I  think  him  a  snob  all  the 
same.     He  has  got  to  royalty  now. 

"  The  Prince  of  Wales  was  saying — "  he  begins,  in  his 
mean,  swaggering  voice. 

"Z>o  you  hioio  the  Prince  of  Wales  ?^'  I  interrupt,  so  as- 
tonished at  the  idea  of  his  having  acquaintance  with  royalty 
that  I  rather  forget  my  own  manners.  For  I  am  only  a  little 
country-girl,  and  in  my  rustic  mind  royalty  is  elevated  on  such 
a  pedestal  that  to  think  of  commonplace  people  being  on  speak- 
ing-terms with  it  takes  my  breath  away. 

In  my  surprise,  I  speak  in  rather  a  loud  key.  Unfortunately, 
at  this  moment  there  is  a  lull  in  the  conversation,  and  my  ques- 
tion is  heard  by  every  one  at  the  table.  There  is  a  general 
titter.  Lady  Grwyueth  laughs  aloud,  and  her  unfortunate  little 
husband  crimsons  with  mortification  as  he  stammers, — 

"  Not  exactly, — not  personally." 

I  am  quite  as  confused  as  he  is.  I  hate  making  people  un- 
comfortable, and  feel  dreadfully  ashamed  of  my  gauclierie. 
Mr.  Desborough  does  not  trouble  me  with  any  more  of  his 
conversation,  and  I  believe  from  that  moment  hates  me  cor- 
dially. I  hear  him  say  something  to  his  next  neighbor  in  an 
aggressive  voice  about  bread-and-butter  school-girls,  which  of 
course  is  meant  for  me.  I  really  am  very  sorry  for  him.  I 
did  not  mean  to  hurt  his  feelings  as  I  think  he  does  mine. 

"  That  was  one  for  Desborough,"  remarks  Major  Hunting- 
don, in  an  amused  undertone. 

4 


38  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"What  liave  I  said?"  I  ask,  hastily.  "I  am  sure  I  am 
very  sorry." 

"  It  is  worse  than  you  think  for,"  he  whisjoers,  laughing. 
"  Three  years  ago  his  old  father,  who  is  the  biggest  snob  out, 
gave  a  tremendous  entertainment,  and  moved  heaven  and 
earth  to  get  the  Prince  there ;  but  he  did  not  go.  It  was  a 
dreadful  mortification." 

"  How  sorry  I  am  !"  I  murmur,  not  a  bit  amused,  and 
longing,  if  it  would  not  be  adding  insult  to  injur}',  to  apolo- 
gize to  Mr.  Desborough, 

"  You  need  not  be"  (laughing) :  "he  wants  taking  down, 
with  his  insufferable  snobbish  airs  ;  he  would  not  be  tolerated 
but  for  Lady  Gwyneth." 

Here  Major  Huntingdon's  attention  is  taken  oif  by  the 
arrival  of  a  snipe,  and  I  am  left  to  continue  my  wistful  stare 
at  the  clock's  broad  gold  fiiee,  round  which  the  hands  appear 
to  travel  so  slowly.  We  have  already  been  an  hour  and  five 
minutes  at  dinner,  and  it  does  not  seem  near  its  end  yet. 

"  Good  heavens  !"  I  think,  "  do  they  have  all  these  dishes 
every  day,  and  can  these  people  always  eat  and  drink  as  they 
are  doing  to-night?" 

I  am  getting  very  tired  of  watching  them,  for,  though  I 
have  an  excellent  appetite,  I  cannot  go  on  eating  forever,  and 
after  soup,  fish,  and  one  entree^  I  came  to  a  stand-still.  The 
room  is  getting  warm,  most  faces  are  flushed,  the  mirth  sounds 
rather  boisterous  in  my  unaccustomed  ears,  and  I  am  longing 
devoutly  for  dinner  to  be  over.  I  glance  furtively  at  the 
menu.  Macedoine  de  Fruit.  Souflle  glace  a  I'Abricot.  Ramc- 
quins,  I  read.  What  are  ramequins,  I  wonder  ?  And  after 
that  there  will  be  dessert,  I  suppose,  glancing  at  the  -pine, 
grapes,  and  various  fruits  and  sweetmeats  which  decorate  the 
table. 

I  wearily  resume  my  contemplation  of  the  company.  Mrs. 
Huntingdon  sits  opposite,  and  next  her  is  a  young,  ftiir,  good- 


DIANA'S  STORY.  39 

looking  man,  whom  I  hear  people  call  Sir  George.  They 
have  been  whispering  together  all  dinner-time :  apparently 
they  do  not  find  it  long.  The  scowl  has  gone  from  her  hand- 
some face,  but  I  do  not  altogether  admire  the  expression  that 
has  replaced  it.  I  am  young  and  ignorant,  but  I  know  that 
even  I,  who  am  so  humble  a  personage  compared  with  her, 
should  feel  indignant  if  any  man  looked  at  me  in  the  way  he 
does  at  her ;  and  how  can  she  have  so  little  command  over 
her  eyes,  with  her  husband  sitting  opposite.  What  is  he 
made  of?  Does  he  not  see?  Is  he  not  burning,  raging  with 
jealousy  ?  I  glance  furtively  at  him.  At  this  very  moment 
his  eyes,  which  are  traveling  round  the  table,  rest  on  them, 
and  pass  on,  evidently  without  seeing  anything  that  causes 
him  a  moment's  uneasiness.  I  begin  to  wonder  whether  there 
is  anything  wrong  with  my  own  mind. 

At  last  dinner  comes  to  an  end.  When  the  elaborate  hands 
have  laboriously  worked  themselves  round  to  twenty  minutes 
to  ten,  Mrs.  Warrington  inclines  her  head  to  Lady  Gwyneth, 
and  we  are  released.  If  I  yielded  to  my  natural  impulse,  I 
should  jump  up,  probably  oversetting  my  chair,  and  skip 
nimbly  across  the  broad  hall ;  but,  as  it  is,  I  march  demurely 
after  Miss  Gore,  hoping  she  will  think  fit  to  take  some  little 
notice  of  me.  But  being  engaged  seems  very  preoccupying. 
She  seats  herself  listlessly  in  a  corner,  and  is  soon  bviried  in 
thought.  (I  suppose,  of  her  soldier,  whom  she  has  not  left 
two  minutes.)  So  I  betake  myself  to  the  conservatory  at  the 
farther  end  of  the  room,  and  luxuriate  in  the  sight  and  smell 
of  the  sweet  rare  flowers.  When  I  return  to  the  tire,  Mrs. 
Huntingdon  and  Lady  Gwyneth  are  sitting  on  two  low  chairs, 
talking,  Mrs.  Warrington  is  indulging  in  a  gentle  doze,  and 
Miss  Gore  still  maintains  her  pensive  attitude. 

"Charlie  Montagu  is  coming  to-morrow,"  Mrs.  Huntingdon 
is  saying,  in  her  cold,  languid  voice,  as  I  approach.  "  Do 
you  know  him?" 


40  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"  Brother  of  the  man  who  is  here  ?"  asks  Lady  Gwyneth. 

"  Yes.     Do  you  not  know  him  ?" 

"No.     What  is  he  like?" 

"  The  handsomest  man  in  England." 

"  Really !"  (indifferently).  "  I  do  not  care  for  handsome 
men.     What  can  he  do  ?" 

"  Smoke,  drink  champagne,  play  ecarte,  and  allow  himself 
to  be  adored." 

Lady  Grwyneth  utters  an  expression  of  contempt,  in  which 
I  must  say  I  concur. 

"  Doesn't  he  ride,  or  shoot,  or  do  amythmg?" 

''  Oh,  yes,  he  can,  but  I  don't  know  that  he  distinguishes 
himself  particularly  in  any  sport.  It  is  too  much  trouble. 
But  when  a  man  is  so  good  to  look  at,  he  can  dispense  with 
accomplishments." 

Lady  Gwyneth  takes  no  pains  to  repress  the  hearty  scorn 
she  feels  at  this  remark. 

"  Why  don't  they  show  him  about  in  a  caravan  ?"  she  says. 
"  I  suppose  he  is  poor,  with  expensive  tastes,  like  most  younger 
sons  ;  and  possibly  women  who  expect  nothing  more  of  a  man 
than  that  he  should  be  good-looking  would  not  mind  paying 
their  guineas  for  the  pleasure  of  contemplating  him.  He 
might  smoke  and  drink  champagne,  you  know,  at  the  same 
time." 

Mrs.  Huntingdon  looks  supremely  indiiferent  to  Lady 
Gwyneth's  sneer. 

"I  wonder  you  never  met  him  in  London,"  she  remarks. 

"  I  never  was  in  London  for  the  season  before  my  marriage 
last  year." 

"  Really  !"  (elevating  her  eyebrows  a  little).  "  What  a 
dreadful  waste  of  life  !" 

"  Rather  what  a  dreadful  waste  of  life  to  be  there  !"  retorts 
Lady  Gwyneth.  "  I  never  spent  a  stupider  time  in  my  life, — 
ambling  up  and  down  the  Row,  or  driving  one's  ponies  half 


DIANA'S  STORY.  41 

a  mile  an  hour  down  the  drive  in  the  afternoon:     I  cannot 
conceive  what  pleasure  people  find  in  it." 

"  I  have  no  Amazon  proclivities  myself,"  says  Mrs.  Ilun 
tingdon,  with  a  slight  yawn  ;  "  and  I  think  it  the  only  place 
to  live  in.     I  merely  exist  out  of  it." 

I  am  rather  glad  that  at  this  juncture  a  man  appears  in 
the  doorway.  Neither  of  the  ladies  are  looking  very  amiable, 
but  at  the  sight  of  broadcloth  their  faces  undergo  a  trans- 
formation. Mrs.  Warrington  wakes  up  briskly,  and  Miss 
Gore's  eyes  kindle  with  eager  expectation  as  she  looks  to- 
wards the  door  through  which  all  the  black  coats  are  entering, 
some  briskly,  some  languidly,  some  as  if  they  were  glad  to 
join  the  ladies,  others  as  if  they  were  sorry  to  leave  the 
wine.  Miss  Gore  is  asked  to  sing,  and  her  soldier  bends 
tenderly  over  her  while  she  executes  rather  an  elaborate 
Italian  song.  I  hope  they  won't  ask  me,  in  an  agony  of 
shyness ;  but  no  sooner  has  Mrs.  Warrington  thanked  and 
complimented  Miss  Gore  than  she  makes  straight  for  me. 

"  Do  you  sing.  Miss  Carew  ?  I  am  sure  you  do.  Let  me 
Bend  for  your  music." 

Here  my  anguish  is  so  great  that  I  do  think  I  might  have 
been  tempted  into  telling  a  falsehood,  had  not  Curly,  whom  I 
never  felt  so  near  hating  in  my  life,  interposed. 

"  Sing  ! — I  should  rather  think  she  does.  You  must  hear 
her,  Mrs.  Warrington."  I  dart  an  angry  glance  at  him,  to 
which  he  responds  by  the  sweetest  of  smiles.  I  am  led  off 
like  a  lamb  to  the  slaughter.  The  room  swims  before  me,  my 
hands  shake  as  if  I  had  the  palsy,  my  teeth  verily  chatter  in 
my  head :  how  can  one  sing  under  such  circumstances  ?  I 
begin  miserably,  get  from  bad  to  worse,  and  come  to  a  lame 
and  impotent  conclusion. 

It  may  be  very  kind  of  the  audience  to  applaud  me  so 
heartily,  no  doubt  it  is  intended  to  be  very  reassuring,  but  it 
only  makes  me  tenfold  more  ashamed  of  myself:  indeed,  I 

4"- 


42  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

have  not  even  coiiran;G  to  leave  the  piano,  and  long  to  turn 
mj'sclf,  like  Hezckiah,  with  mj  face  to  the  wall. 

"  Why,  Miss  Carew,"  cries  my  host,  in  his  jolly  voice,  "  we 
had  no  idea  we  had  such  a  star  down  here  in  the  provinces." 
Star,  indeed  !  he  might  have  said  sun,  looking  at  my  flaming 
face.  I  evidently  was  not  meant  for  society;  at  home  I  do 
not  blush  once  in  six  months,  but  since  my  arrival  at  War- 
rington I  have  done  nothing  else.  Why  was  blushing  in- 
vented, or  why  cannot  it  be  properly  controlled  for  suitable 
occasions,  or  left  altogether  to  the  mock  modest  who  would 
set  great  value  on  the  acquirement  ?  To  add  to  my  pleasur- 
able sensations.  Curly  comes  up  with  a  flushed,  cross  face. 

"  I  say,  Di,  what  an  awful  mess  j'ou  made  of  it !"  he  ejacu- 
lates, reassuringly.  "  Do  show  them  you  can  do  something 
better  than  that !" 

"  Eh  ?  What !"  cries  Mr.  Warrington,  catching  him  by 
the  shoulder,  and  giving  it  a  friendly  shake.  "  You  critical 
young  jackanapes  !  What  do  you  know  about  it,  I  should  like 
to  know  ?  Stick  to  your  football  and  ci'icket,  and  don't  pre- 
tend to  come  the  singing-master  over  us." 

"  Well,  sir,  I  should  just  like  you  to  hear  what  she  can  do," 
responds  Curly,  who,  I  am  glad  to  see,  in  spite  of  his  acquaint- 
ance with  society,  hangs  out  the  same  tokens  of  distress  in  his 
cheeks  that  I  do.     Perhaps  it  runs  in  the  family. 

"  Come,  Di"  (with  a  frown  and  a  wink),  "  sing  '  Old  Robin 
Grray,'  or  one  of  those." 

"  Oh,  do,  do  !"  cry  half  a  dozen  voices. 

I  look  round  me,  as  I  have  seen  my  cat  do  in  the  yard 
when  two  or  three  strange  dogs  came  in.  If  there  were  any 
way  of  escape,  I  would  flee  incontinently  there  and  then  ;  but 
there  is  not.  So,  with  the  courage  of  despair,  I  say  to  my- 
self, I  tcill  do  better  this  time,  and,  thank  Heaven,  I  do.  And 
when  I  have  got  half-way  through  that  fine  old  song,  that, 
hackneyed  as  it  is,  will  always  be  sweet  and  touching,  I  forget 


DIANA'S  STORY.  43 

my  audience,  and  sing  it  as  I  do  to  myself,  feeling  all  the 
while  just  as  heart-broken  as  if  I  were  tied  to  Auld  Robin  and 
my  Jamie  had  just  taken  his  one  kiss  and  torn  himself  away. 
There  is  no  applause  this  time ;  people  are  regarding  me 
curiously,  and  I  am  utterly  surprised  as  I  rise  to  see  Lady 
Gwyneth  sitting  near  me  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  her  small 
nose  pink  with  suppressed  emotion.  Mr.  Desborough  is  not 
old,  I  think  to  myself,  but  it  occurs  to  me  that  there  may 
perhaps  be  young  Robins  as  well  as  old  ones. 

I-  sink  shyly  down  on  the  nearest  couch,  and  at  this  mo- 
ment Mrs.  Warrington  comes  up  with  my  friend.  Yes,  I 
l:now  he  is  going  to  be  my  friend  by  that  inexplicable  feeling 
of  attraction  that  once  or  twice  in  a  life-time  draws  two 
strangers  together,  before  they  have  had  time  to  know  or  even 
to  speculate  about  each  other. 

"  My  dear.  Colonel  Fane  wishes  to  be  introduced  to  you. 
Miss  Carew,  Colonel  Rochester  Fane." 

Having  performed  this  ceremony,  she  goes,  and  he  seats 
himself  beside  me. 

"  I  want  your  advice.  Miss  Carew,"  he  says,  in  an  easy, 
oif-hand  manner,  as  though  we  had  known  each  other  for 
years. 

"  Mine?"  I  say,  looking  and  feeling  very  much  surprised. 

"  Yes.  How  is  one  to  make  sufficient  .distinction  in  one's 
voice  when  one  desires  to  express  extreme  gratitude,  or  has  to 
pronounce  a  mere  formal  compliment,  when  precisely  the  same 
words  are  given  one  to  do  it  in  ?" 

"I  don't  think  I  quite  understand,"  I  answer,  regarding 
him  doubtfully. 

"  For  instance"  (bending  a  little  nearer,  and  speaking  in  a 
lower  key),  "  Miss  Gore's  singing  gave  me!  no  pleasure  at  all, 
but  I  was  obliged  to  say,  '  Thank  you ;'  yours  gave  me  the 
greatest  pleasure  I  have  had  for  a  long  time,  and  yet  I  can 
find  nothing  more  to  say  for  it  ihan,  '  Thank  you.'  " 


44  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"Oh,"  I  answer,  a  little  puzzled  how  to  reply  to  what  I 
imagine  to  be  the  polite  jargon  of  society,  " '  Thank  you'  is 
quite  enough  ;  and  I  did  not  sing  it  very  well.  You  know" 
(speaking  with  as  much  confidence  as  if  I  had  known  him  for 
years  instead  of  minutes)  "  I  have  never  been  out  before,  and 
I  was  so  dreadfully  nervous." 

"  And  how  do  you  like  your  first  glimpse  of  the  world  ?" 

"I  like  Mrs.  Warrington  immensely T  I  reply;  "and  the 
house  is  beautiful !" 

He  laughs. 

"  Is  that  all  you  can  say  ?" 

"  The  fact  is"  (apologetically),  "  I  had  never  been  to  a 
dinner-party  before,  and  dinner  seemed  so  very  long.  Is  it 
always  as  long?" 

"Sometimes  longer,"  he  answers,  laughing.  "We  got 
through  in  pretty  good  time  to-night,  I  thought.  Why,  we 
joined  you  at  five  minutes  past  ten." 

"  Two  hours  !"  I  exclaim.     "  What  a  waste  of  time  !" 

"  You  don't  care  about  eating,  I  suppose,"  he  continues, 
still  with  the  same  friendly,  inquisitorial  look  in  his  handsome 
eyes.  "  What  will  you  think  of  me  when  I  tell  you  that  I  not 
only  enjoy  my  dinner,  but  looh  forward  to  itT^ 

"  Oh,  so  do  I,"  I  answer,  not  at  all  wishing  to  feign  a 
delicate  appetite,  having  a  very  healthy  and  excellent  one. 
"  Perhaps  I  should  not  have  found  it  so  long  if  I  had  had 
some  one  pleasant  to  talk  to." 

I  stop  awkwardly,  thinking  I  have  been  impolitely  frank. 

"  Why,  you  had  Desborough"  (with  a  smile)  ;  "  was  not 
his  talk  very  entertaining  and  instructive  ?  Did  he  not  put 
you  through  your  Catechism  about  the  nobility  and  lauded 
gentry  of  Great  Britain  and  Ireland  ?" 

"  Yes ;  but  when  he  discovered  my  utter  and  total  igno- 
rance on  the  subject  he  desisted.  I  wonder  what  made  Lady 
Gwynetb  marry  him  ?" 


DIANA'S  STORY.  45 

"  I  suppose  you  nevei"'  lieard  of  such  a  tliiug  as  a  mariage 
de  convenancef^ 

"  Yes,  I  have, — in  France,"  I  cry,  eagerly,  wishing  to  show 
that  I  am  not  ignorant  upon  every  subject. 

He  laughs  his  pleasant  laugh  again. 

"  You  will  be  surprised,  perhaps,  if  I  tell  you  that  they 
sometimes  take  place  in  our  own  country.  Lady  Grwyneth's 
was  one.  She  had  rank  and — well,  I  won't  say  beauty,  but  a 
fliir  amount  of  good  looks,  and  he  had  money.  Do  you  know 
his  antecedents?" 

"No." 

"His  father  was  a  draper,  by  the  name  of  Puggins;  he 
speculated  as  well,  and  made  a  tremendous  fortune ;  changed 
his  name  to  Desborough,  christened  his  son  Harold  de  Courcy, 
and  sent  him  to  Eton  to  get  licked  into  shape.  They  did  all 
they  could  for  him  there  ;  but  I  dare  say  you  know  a  homely 
proverb  about  a  silk  jjurse  ?" 

I  nod  my  head. 

"  A  draper !"'  I  say ;  for  I  am  afraid  in  my  ignorance  I  am 
far  behind  my  age,  and  am  imbued  with  rather  a  contempt  for 
trade. 

"  Suppose  I  were  to  tell  you,"  says  Colonel  Fane,  gravely, 
remarking  no  doubt  the  expression  of  my  countenance,  "  that 
my  father  was  in  the  same  line?" 

"  I  should  not  believe  you,"  I  say,  without  a  moment's 
hesitation. 

"  Well,  if  he  had  been,"  he  says,  laughing,  "I hope  I  should 
not  be  so  ashamed  of  him  as  poor  little  Desborough  is  of  his. 
If  any  one  breathes  the  word  trade,  he  is  ready  to  sink  through 
the  earth.  I  don't  suppose  he  has  got  the  yard-measure  or  the 
golden  sheep  in  the  quarterings  of  his  splendid  coat  of  arms." 

"I  think,"  I  utter,  reflectively,  "that  /should  feel  rather 
ashamed  if  my  father  were  a  draper.  Fancy  papa  a  draper  1" 
I  say,  laughing  heartily  at  the  bai'e  notion. 


46  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"  No,  you  would  not,"  he  answersy  eagerly.  "  Bon  sang  ne 
pent  mentir!" 

"  But  in  that  case  it  pi'obably  would  not  be  bon  sancf,^'  1 
return.     And  then  I  laugh  again  to  myself. 

"  Are  you  trying  to  fancy  your  father  serving  out  a  yard 
of  ribbon  ?"  he  asks. 

"Yes"  (laughing  still);  "but"  (resuming  my  gi'avity,  as 
the  proud  blood  rushes  to  my  heart),  "  if  I  saw  my  father 
serving  ribbon,  or"  (with  great  energy)  "  sweeping  a  crossing, 
he  would  still  be  the  finest  gentleman  in  the  laud  to  me!" 


CHAPTER    V. 


DIANA  S    STORY. 


"  I  AM  afraid  that  is  the  signal  for  retii-ing,"  says  Colonel 

Fane,  as  we  see  Mrs.  Warrington  make  a  move.     "  You  will 

be  going  to  bed  now." 

"  Yes,"  I  answer,  looking  at  the  clock.    "  It  is  very  late, — 

ten  minutes  past  eleven." 

"  Pray"  (smiling),  "  what  time  do  you  go  to  bed  at  home?" 

"  Oh,  generally  between  half-past  nine  and  ten." 

"  Really !  You  must  get  a  good  deal  of  beauty  sleep.    I  have 

heard  it  is  only  to  be  obtained  before  twelve  o'clock.    Do  you 

know  that  saying?" 

"  Yes.     Nurse  always  tells  it  me  when  I  am  late." 

"  Oh  !  you  have  a  nurse,  have  you  ?"  (looking  amused). 

"  By  the  way,  though,  so  had  Juliet." 

"  And  I  am  older  than  Juliet  by  three  years,"  I  add,  slyly. 

*'  Must  not  I  be  a  baby  to  want  a  nurse  at  my  age?" 


DIANA'S  STORY.  47 

"  And  yet,"  he  says,  musingly,  replying  to  the  first  part  of 
my  sentence,  "  I  fancy  Juliet  must  have  been  very  much  more 
of  a  woman  than  you  are." 

I  feel  slightly  ofi^ended.  It  is  rather  ignominious  to  be 
thought  young.     I  rise  to  wish  him  good-night. 

"  Good-night,"  he  says,  holding  my  hand  rather  longer  than 
necessary. 

The  next  day  it  pours  in  torrents.  There  is  a  meet  three 
miles  off,  and  most  of  the  party  had  intended  hunting.  A 
few  adventurous  spirits  appear  in  pink,  but  after  they  have 
stood  a  few  minutes  at  the  window,  dismally  contemplating 
the  project,  having  each  and  every  of  them  tapped  the  glass, 
and  looked  out  at  the  hall-door,  to  observe  the  weather  from  a 
fresh  point  of  view,  they  for  the  most  part  make  up  their 
minds  that  it  is  hopeless,  and  fifty  to  one  against  the  hounds 
meeting. 

"Shall  I  go,  or  stay?"  whispers  Colonel  Fane,  who  has 
found  his  way  to  my  side  at  the  breakfast-table. 

"  You  will  get  very  wet  if  you  go,"  I  reply,  demurely. 

At  this  moment  Lady  Gwyneth  enters,  fully  equipped. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  are  going.  Lady  Gwyneth !" 
cry  half  a  dozen  voices,  in  various  accents  of  surprise. 

''  Isn't  everybody  going  ?"  she  asks,  coolly  taking  her  seat. 

"  Look  at  the  weather  !"  "  The  hounds  won't  meet  1" 
"  What's  the  use  of  getting  wet  through  ?"  say  voices,  again. 

"  Oh,  if  you  are  afraid  of  a  little  rain,  no  doubt  you  are  all 
better  at  home,"  she  retorts,  contemptuously. 

"  I'll  go  if  you  do.  Lady  Gwyneth,"  cries  Curly,  flushiug 
up,  and  looking  very  eager. 

"  Oh,  Curly  !"  I  utter,  involuntarily. 

"  Bravo  ! — so  you  shall,"  she  answers,  taking  no  notice  of 
me.  "  And  you  shall  ride  Mr.  Desborough's  niare.  I  think" 
(contemptuously)  "  I  can  answer  for  his  not  being  of  the 
party." 


48  FOR   A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

Her  liusbaud  looks  up,  not  very  well  pleased,  but  too  much 
afraid  of  her  to  offer  any  but  the  mildest  opposition. 

"  I  am  sure  the  earl,  your  father — "  he  begins. 

"  Pray  leave  the  earl,  my  fither,  out  of  the  question" 
(looking  daggers  at  him).  "  I  am  not  always  bringing  up 
your  father,  the — dear  me,  I  am  afraid  I  was  going  to  say  the 
draper  !"  (with  a  short  and  very  unpleasant  laugh).  " '  Mais 
nous  avons  change  tout  cela.' " 

I  do  not  think  any  one  present  thinks  any  the  more  of 
Lady  Gwyneth  for  this  outrageous  speech ;  indeed,  I  fancy  she 
is  rather  ashamed  of  it  herself,  for  she  says,  hastily, — 

"  Come,  Mr.  Warrington,  the  weather  won't  keep  you^  I 
know.  If  the  hounds  don't  meet,  we  can  turn  tail  and  come 
back:  at  all  events,  we  shall  have  had  a  ride.  I  never  take 
off  my  habit  when  I  have  once  put  it  on." 

"  All  right,  Lady  Grwyn  !"  cries  the  jolly  voice  of  our  host, 
"  I'm  your  man. 

-    "'If  you  will,  you  will,  we  may  depend  on  't,' 

I  suppose.     How  soon  shall  I  order  the  horses  ?" 

"  Curly,"  I  say,  in  a  small  voice,  my  anxiety  overcoming 
my  shyness,  "  if  Mr.  Warrington  is  going,  there  is  no  necessity 
for  you  to  go.     You  know  you  have  rather  a  cough." 

"  Oh,  yes,  stop  at  home,  and  put  your  feet  in  mustard-and- 
water,  and  let  your  sister  give  you  gruel,"  sneers  Lady  Grwy- 
neth  ;  and,  I  think  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  my  brother 
darts  an  angry  glance  at  me. 

"  Pray  mind  your  own  business,  Di,"  he  says,  crossly. 

At  this  moment  I  hate  Lady  Gwyneth. 

''  My  dear  fellow,"  interposes  Colonel  Fane,  quietly,  "  you 
ought  to  be  tremendously  obliged  to  your  sister  for  being  so 
anxious  about  you.  You  see"  (with  a  little  flash  in  his  eyes), 
"  it  is  a  matter  of  utter  indifference  to  Lady  Gwyneth  whether 


DIANA'S  STORY.  49 

you  lay  in  consumption  or  a  cough  for  the  winter,  as  long  as 
you  do  her  bidding  when  she  wants  you." 

"  Thank  you,  Colonel  Fane,"  says  Lady  Gwyneth,  coloring 
a  little.     "  You  give  me  a  charming  character." 

"  I  shall  be  delighted  if  you  prove  that  it  is  undeserved,"  he 
answers,  with  a  little  smile. 

"  No  one  shall  accuse  me  of  helping  to  make  a  milksop  of 
a  boy,"  she  replies,  defiantly.  "  Come,  Mr.  Carew,  are  you 
ready?" 

Curly  jumps  up  with  flattered  alacrity,  and  I  feel  dis- 
comfited. 

"  Never  mind,"  says  Colonel  Fane,  encouragingly,  "  I  dare 
say  he  has  had  many  a  good  wetting  before  now ;  and  I  can- 
not say  he  looks  at  all  delicate." 

"  Oh,  no  !"  I  answer,  hastily,  "  not  a  bit !  But  one  hears 
such  stories,  you  know;  and  papa  and  I  are  frightened  to 
death  if  he  ails  the  least  thing." 

"  What  a  devoted  family  you  seem  !" 

"Yes,"  I  answer,  simply;  "we  all  think  there  is  no  one 
like  each  other." 

The  sentence  is  not  a  very  well-turned  one,  but  it  expresses 
my  meaning,  and  he  seems  to  understand  it. 

"  Have  you  any  brothers  and  sisters  ?"  I  ask.       , 

"One  sister.  The  only  relation  —  the  only  near  one,  at 
least — I  have  in  the  world.     She  is  coming  to-day." 

"I  am  very  glad,"  I  say,  taking  it  as  a  matter  of  course 
that  I  shall  like  her.     "  Is  she  like  you  ?" 

"  Why? — would  you  wish  her  to  be?"   (a  little  curiously). 

"  Yes,"  I  say,  frankly,  for  somehow  I  do  not  feel  at  all  shy 
with  him. 

"  No,"  he  says,  with  a  sigh,  "  she  is  not  much  like  me,  or 
rather  I  am  not  much  like  her.  I  wish  I  were.  She  is,  I 
verily  believe,  the  best  woman  in  the  world." 

"  Then  I  suppose  she  is  not  very  young  or  pretty,"  I 
c  5 


50  FOR   A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

remark,  -with  a  naivete  of  which  I  am  unconscious  for  the 
moment. 

"Don't  the  two  go  together?"  he  asks,  smiling;  then, 
looking  earnestly  at  me,  "  I  am  sure  they  do  sometimes." 

I  blush,  and  am  furiously  angry  with  myself  for  doing  so. 
Of  course  it  looks  as  though  I  take  his  speech  to  myself;  and 
how  on  earth  can  he  know  wliether  I  am  good  or  not?  I, 
alas  1  know  how  far  short  I  fall  of  meriting  that  desirable 
adjective. 

"  She  is  not  what  yov,  would  call  young,"  Colonel  Fane 
proceeds.  "  I  believe"  (with  a  smile)  "  young  ^-Is  think 
every  member  of  their  own  sex  over  five-and-twenty  uninter- 
estingly old  ;  and  she  is  thirty ;  but  pretty  she  certainly  is,  if 
T  am  to  believe  the  world's  unanimous  verdict." 

"  I  hope  she  will  like  me,"  I  say,  diffidently,  "  for  I  have 
not  spoken  two  words  to  any  lady  but  Mrs.  Warrington  since 
I  entered  the  house." 

"  Well,"  he  says,  smiling,  "  Miss  Gore  must  be  excused  for 
being  preoccupied  ;  and  as  for  Lady  Gwyneth  and  Mrs.  Hunt- 
ingdon, they  never  think  of  speaking  to  one  of  their  own  sex 
as  long  as  there  is  a  man  present." 

There  is  a  general  move. 

"Can  you  play  billiards?"  he  asks  me. 

I  answer  in  the  affirmative,  being  tolerably  proficient  from 
constant  practice.  ^ 

"  Then  come  into  the  billiard-room." 

I  shake  my  head. 

"  I  had  rather  not." 

"Why?  Mrs.  Huntingdon  will  keep  you  in  countenance. 
She  always  goes  into  the  billiard-room  after  breakfast." 

"  Does  she  play?" 

"  No  ;  but,  as  she  says,  she  loathes  doing  needle-work  Avith 
a  parcel  of  women  in  a  boudoir.  She  never  does  anything,  as 
far  as  I  know,  but  recline,  magnificently  dressed,  in  a  lounging- 


DIANA'S  STORY.  51 

chair,  with  her  hands  in  her  lap, -covered  with  diamonds — and 
— flirt,"  he  adds. 

I  suppose  I  look  rather  surprised,  for  he  says,  quickly, — 

"  No  doubt  you  think  it  rather  strange  for  a  married 
woman  to  flirt,  and  it  slipped  out  unawares"  (looking  rather 
vexed  with  himself);  "  only  jou  cannot  very  well  be  in  the 
house  very  long  with  her  and  not  find  it  out." 

"But  her  husband?"  I  say,  opening  my  eyes:  "does  he 
not  mind?" 

"  Not  in  the  least,  I  think.  I  am  not  sure  he  is  even 
aware  of  it." 

"  How  dreadful !"  I  ejaculate,  in  so  serious  a  voice  that  he 
laughs. 

"  Come,"  he  says,  "  let  us  go  into  the  billiard-room.  How 
many  will  you  give  me  ?" 

The  morning  passes  away  very  quickly  and  pleasantly. 
After  billiards  we  take  to  battledore  and  shuttlecock, — a 
game  provocative  of  much  laughter  when  one  is  not  very 
proficient,  as  neither  Colonel  Fane  nor  I  are.  Mrs.  Hunt- 
ingdon perfectly  carries  out  the  programme  allotted  to  her. 

"  Di,"  says  my  brother  through  the  keyhole,  as  I  am  arrang- 
ing my  rufiled  locks  before  luncheon, — "  Di,  open  the  door." 

I  comply,  and,  the  door  being  opened,  he  gives  me  a  hearty 
embrace. 

"  I'm  awfully  sorry  I  spoke  so  crossly  to  you  this  morning, 
dear  old  Di !" 

"  I  don't  think  you  ever  said  a  harsh  word  hardly  to  me  in 
your  life  before,"  I  reply,  the  tears  starting  to  my  eyes ;  "  and 
to  think  she  should  be  the  cause !" 

I  suppose  there  is  a  ring  of  the  contempt  I  feel  in  my  voice, 
for  he  says,  quickly, — 

"  Don't  abuse  her,  Di.  She's  an  awfully  kind,  jolly  little 
woman,  and  she  has  asked  me  over  there  to  stay ;  and,  by 
jingo  !  can't  she  just  ride  !" 


52  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

My  face  falls, — I  don't  know  why  ;  but,  independently  of 
losing  his  society,  I  hate  the  thought  of  his  going  to  her.  I 
feel  a  desire  to  disparage  her  that  I  never  felt  for  any  one 
before ;  but  then  I  have  hardly  ever  seen  any  of  my  own  sex 
but  the  rector's  wife  and  daughters,  and  the  doctor's  sister. 

"I  supjwse  you  think  everything  she  docs  nice?"  I  say, 
"  I  suppose"  (i-aising  my  voice  a  little)  "  you  think  it  was  nice 
of  her  to  say  what  she  did  to  her  husband  at  breakfast  ?" 

"  No,  I  don't ;  but  you  have  no  idea"  (earnestly)  "  what  a 
miserable  life  hers  is.     He  is  such  a  sickening  little  cad !" 

My  lip  curls  in  scorn.  My  opinion  of  Lady  Gwyueth  is  in 
no  way  heightened  by  the  thought  that  she  has  been  confiding 
her  troubles  to  a  boy  of  sixteen,  whose  acquaintance  she  has 
not  had  twenty-four  hours. 

"  Never  mind,"  I  say,  kissing  him,  as  the  gong  sounds. 
"  At  all  events,  never  let  her  make  you  unkind  to  me,  dear." 
And  we  proceed  down-stairs  together  amicably. 

Whilst  we  are  sitting  at  lunch,  the  clouds  break,  the  sun 
comes  out  in  all  his  glory,  and  every  one  begins  to  make  plans 
for  spending  the  afternoon  out  of  doors.  ]Mrs.  Warrington 
invites  Mrs.  Huntingdon  to  drive  with  her  in  the  barouche, 
and  that  lady  accedes.  Then  our  hostess,  turning  to  me, 
kindly  asks  me  to  be  of  the  party.  I  do  not  want  to  go  in 
the  least,  but,  not  knowing  how  to  excuse  myself,  thank  her, 
and  accept. 

"  Quite  wrong.  Miss  Carew,"  says  Colonel  Fane,  who  is 
again  next  to  me:  "  it  would  do  you  ten  times  more  good  to 
go  for  a  good  walk." 

"  I  like  walking,"  I  answer,  eagerly. 

"  So  do  I.  Let  us  make  up  a  party :  may  we,  Mrs.  War- 
rington?    Who  is  for  a  walk  ?" 

"  We  are,"  cries  Miss  Grore.  Then,  correcting  herself,  with 
a  blush, — "  At  least,  I  am." 

"  And  I,"  says  her  soldier,  tenderly. 


DIANA'S  STORY.  53 

No  one  else  volunteers.  Mr.  Warrington  is  going  to  drive 
Lady  Gwyneth  and  two  or  tliree  of  the  men  on  his  coach, 
since  it  is  too  wet  to  shoot. 

"  You  will  come  too,  Curly  ?"  says  Lady  Gwyneth ;  and 
for  the  world  I  cannot  help  an  angry  flash  coming  into  my 
eyes  at  this  increase  of  intimacy. 

Half  an  hour  later  we  four  are  starting  for  our  walk.  The 
air  is  delicious,  the  sun  as  bright  and  hot  as  it  can  be  in  Jan- 
uary ;  such  birds  as  there  are  are  smging,  whistling,  twittering ; 
the  bright  rain-drops  stand  on  every  leaf  and  twig,  like  unset 

diamonds ;  little  rivulets  of  rain  run  and  sparkle  ; 

» 

"  From  the  green  rivago,  many  a  fall 
Of  diamond  riJlets  musical" 

work  on  their  way  to  the  brook  below.  It  is  such  a  day  as 
bne  sometimes  gets  in  midwinter,  giving  one  a  heavenly  fore- 
taste of  the  spring. 

"  How  glad  I  am  you  thought  of  a  walk  !"  I  say,  joyously. 
"  I  hate  driving, — or,  rather,  being  driven.  But  I  wish  we 
had  some  dogs  to  take ;  that  is  half  the  fun  of  a  walk." 

"  We  had  better  get  ahead  of  the  other  couple,"  he  whis- 
pers, 

«  Why  ?" 

"  Why,  because,"  he  answers,  laughing,  "  we  should  make 
a  point  of  following  them  religiously,  which  they  would  think 
a  great  nuisance  ;  and  I  don't  suppose  they  will  have  the  same 
scruples  with  regard  to  us." 

"  I  see  ;  but  really  I  do  not  know  why  lovers  should  require 
to  be  left  alone  in  such  a  public  thing  as  a  walk." 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  cries  Colonel  Fane,  as,  stepping  out 
briskly,  we  pass  them,  "  what  a  snail's  pace  you  are  going ! 
Miss  Carew  and  I  cannot  curb  our  impatient  feet,  so  we  will 
show  you  the  way." 

And  on  we  go,  nor  ever  cast  a  glance  behind  for  a  couple 


54  FOR   A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

of  miles,  when  Colonel  Fane  looks  over  his  shoulder,  and  says, 
with  a  laugh, — 

"  I  thought  as  much.  Miss  Gore  and  her  soldier  are  no- 
where in  sight." 

I  feel  as  if  I  had  known  my  companion  all  my  life,  and 
talk  away  to  him  about  my  father,  Curly,  home,  and  most 
things  that  concern  us  ;  and  he  listens  as  if  I  were  telling 
him  the  most  amusing,  interesting  stories  in  the  world. 

"Dear  me,"  I  say,  with  sudden  compunction,  as  after  a 
walk  of  about  an  hour  and  a  half  we  are  drawing  homewards 
again,  "  how  I  must  have  been  boring  you  all  this  time  1  I 
am  nearly  as  bad  as  i\Ir.  Desborough,  only  in  a  differcat  line." 

"  You  cannot  think  how  interested  I  have  been,"  he 
answers,  eagerly.  "  I  quite  long  to  see  you  at  home.  I  won- 
der if  your  father  would  consider  it  a  liberty  if  I  were  to  call 
upon  him?" 

"  Oh  no,"  I  begin,  quickly,  and  then  pause,  remembering 
papa's  aversion  for  any  society. 

"  I  shall  ride  over  one  day,"  he  says,  not  remarking  my 
hesitation  :  "  you  know  I  live  only  eleven  miles  from  you,  and 
my  father  and  your  grandfather  used  to  know  each  other  very 
well.  After  all  you  have  told  me,  I  should  like  immensely 
to  see  Mr.  Carew.     I  wish  he  were  here  !" 

"  So  do  I,"  I  respond,  with  a  big  sigh.  "  I  do  miss  him 
so.     I  did  not  want  to  come  at  all,  but  he  insisted  upon  it." 

"Quite  right,  too,"  says  Colonel  Fane,  approvingly:  "you 
ought  to  leave  him  sometimes,  to  get  him  accustomed  to  it 
against  the  time  when  you  leave  him  altogether." 

"  You  mean  when  I  get  married  ?"  I  say,  not  pretending  to 
misunderstand  him. 

"Exactly"  (smiling). 

"  But,"  I  return,  triumphantly,  "  I  shall  not  get  married ! 
I  never  see  a  man," 

"  Thank  you"  (taking  off  his  hat). 


DIANA'S  STORY.  55 

"  This  is  the  first  time  I  have  ever  been  out,  and  I  do  not 
suppose  I  shall  ever  go  anywhere  again,  unless  Mrs.  Warring- 
ton invites  me  next  year,  if  I  behave  properly  this  time." 

"  Then  you  don't  look  forward  to  getting  married,  as  most 
girls  do." 

"  No"  (shaking  my  head),  "  not  at  a^l." 

"  Have  you  never"  (very  earnestly)  "  thought  it  would  be 
pleasant  to  have  some  one  to  love  and  care  for  you  intensely, 
in  a  different  way  from  a  father  or  mother?" 

"  Yes,"  I  answer,  reluctantly,  blushing  a  little,  "  I  have.  I 
have  been  desperately  in  love,  too,  with  men  in  books ;  but" 
(smiling),  "  after  those  heroes,  I  do  not  think  I  should  find 
an  ordinary  man  to  come  up  to  my  expectations.  One  would 
have  to  be  so  very  fond  of  a  man  to  marry  him,  would  not 
one?"  (looking  up  earnestly  at  him). 

"  Vide  Lady  Gwyneth  and  Mrs.  Huntingdon,"  he  says, 
laughing,  but  as  quickly  becoming  grave  again. 

"  Grod  forbid  that  7/ou  should  ever  marry  except  for  love  1" 
he  adds,  looking  at  me  very  kindly. 


56  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 


CHAPTEPt  VI. 


DIANA  S  STORY. 


"^IIERE  is  to  be  a  dance  to-night,  and  more  visitors  have 
arrived  at  the  Hall.  We  are  to  dine  an  liour  earlier,  that  we 
may  be  ready  to  dance  when  we  are  piped  to.  Now  we  arc 
all  sitting  over  five-o'clock  tea.  I  begin  to  feel  quite  at  home. 
Most  of  the  men  in  the  house  have  been  introduced  to  and 
have  talked  to  me ;  some  have  even  invited  me  to  dance, — 
rather  a  risky  thing  to  do  to  a  little  country-girl  who  has  never 
been  out.  Well,  thanks  and  Curly  be  praised,  I  can  dance, 
for  Archdale's  sisters,  who  are  renowned  waltzors,  took  his 
education  in  hand  last  summer,  and  he  has  extended  his 
knowledge  to  me.  Many  a  waltz  have  he  and  I  had  on  the 
polished  floor  of  our  big  bare  drawing-room,  whilst  good- 
natured  Miss  Cross  has  played  unweariedly  for  us  on  the  old 
piano.  Curly  says  I  dance  as  well  and  better  than  Archdale's 
sisters ;  but  I  take  that  "  with  a  grain  of  salt,"  as  papa  says. 
I  have  never  danced  with  any  one  except  my  brother ;  but  I 
cannot  imagine  anything  more  graceful  or  buoyant  than  his 
step ;  and,  although  he  is  two  years  my  junior,  he  is  half  a 
head  taller,  and  I  am  not  short.  I  hear  him  now  supplicating 
Lady  Gwyneth  to  promise  him  a  waltz. 

"  Don't  promise  him  anything  of  the  sort,  Lady  Grwyneth," 
says  a  good-looking  young  cornet  who  has  come  over  from  the 
neighboring  town  to  dine  and  dance.  "  He  will  tear  your 
dress,  stamp  on  your  toes,  and  probably  throw  you  down. 
Boys  are  so  lungeous." 

The  cornet  is  hanging  over  Lady  Gwyncth's  chair,  and 
speaks  in  a  lazy,  good-natured,  chaffing  tone. 


DIANA'S  STORY.  57 

Curly  looks  at  him  for  a  moment  with  a  stare  of  well-bred 
impertinence  that  startles  me.  Where  on  earth  did  he  learn 
it? 

"  I  shall  be  very  happy  to  match  my  performance  with 
yours  either  in  the  ball-room  or  the  hunting-field,"  he  remarks. 

If  I  had  been  surprised  at  his  look,  his  speech  and  the 
coolness  with  which  he  makes  it  nearly  take  my  breath  away. 

There  is  a  general  shout  from  the  bystanders.  "  Bravo, 
young  un  !"  cries  our  host.  "  Spoken  like  a  man !"  And 
Lady  Grwyneth,  laughing,  heartily  says,  "  I'll  give  you  two 
waltzes  for  that,  Curly.  I'm  sure  you  would  not  swagger 
about  a  thing  you  could  not  do ;  and  if  you  dance  as  well  as 
you  ride  I  should  not  mind  waltzing  all  night  with  you." 

"  What  a  surprising  infant  it  must  be !"  sneers  the  dis- 
comfited cornet.     "  Quite  a  phenomenon  !" 

"  There's  something  I  think  I  could  surpass  you  in,"  says 
Curly,  flushing  a  little. 

"  No  doubt  a  hundred ;  but  what  might  the  particular  one 
be?" 

"  Manners !"  replies  Curly,  calmly,  turning  on  his  heel. 

"  What  a  dear  boy  that  is !"  cries  Lady  Gwyneth.  "  I 
declare  I  am  positively  in  love  with  him." 

"  Are  you?"  I  think,  grimly.  "  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear 
it." 

The  door  is  flung  open,  and  Captain  Montagu  is  announced. 
I  look  up  expectantly  to  see  the  man  whom  Mrs.  Huntingdon 
has  pronounced  "  the  handsomest  in  England." 

"  How  are  you,  Charlie  ?"  resounds  on  all  sides ;  he  is 
evidently  popular.  It  is  a  minute  or  two  before  I  can  get  a 
glimpse  of  him,  surrounded  as  he  is  by  people  shaking  hands 
and  asking  questions.  I  gather  from  the  conversation  that  he 
has  just  come  from  a  house  where  royalty  was  being  enter- 
tained. 

He  is  coming  towards  the  fire.  I  can  sec  him  now.  I  suppose 
c* 


58  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

my  nature  must  be  rather  a  contradictory  one,  for  when  Mrs. 
Huntingdon  praised  him  I  made  up  my  mind  that  I  should 
not  admire  him.  I  was  wrong.  I  do  admire  him  with  that 
profound  love  of  beauty,  in  whatever  form,  that  was  born  and 
I  believe  M'ill  die  in  me.  Handsome !  yes,  handsome  as  my 
ideal  heroes  and  fairy  princes, — handsomer  than  anything  real 
I  believed  possible.  He  is  good  to  look  at  as  he  stands  by 
the  fii'eplace  in  a  careless,  easy  posture,  that  becomes  him 
admirably.  I  know  nothing  of  the  fashion  of  men's  clothes, 
have  always  thought  them  hideous,  but  the  traveling-suit  he 
wears  is  faultless  and  looks  as  if  it  must  have  grown  upon 
him.  I  need  not  stop  to  chronicle  his  features :  they  are 
engraven  on  my  heart,  and  I  dare  say  the  outside  world  can 
do  without  an  inventory  of  them. 

I  am  sitting  away  from  the  light  and  fire,  for  my  brisk  walk 
in  the  winter  air  has  made  my  cheeks  all  aglow,  and  I  can 
feast  my  eyes  unobserved,  I  think,  upon  this  face  whose  con- 
templation gives  me  infinite  pleasure. 

I  am  mistaken,  and  acknowledge  it  with  a  violent  start,  as 
a  low  voice  behind  me  says, — 

"  What  is  the  result  of  your  very  minute  investigation  ?" 

I  am  reassured  when  I  find  my  interlocutor  is  only  Colonel 
Fane,  and  answer,  simply,  with  that  strong  instinct  of  con- 
fidence with  which  he  inspires  me, — 

"  I  never  in  my  life  saw  any  one  so  handsome  before." 

"  Really !"  and  I  fancy  his  voice  sounds  a  little  cold  and 
disappointed.  "  I  suppose  he  is  a  good-looking  fellow :  at 
least  most  women  seem  to  think  so." 

"  How  could  any  one  think  otherwise  ?"  I  say,  warmly. 
"  Do  you  know"  (with  a  confidence  which  I  am  not  at  the 
time  aware  displays  great  want  of  tact),  "  he  is  handsomer 
even  than  the  ideal  heroes  of  my  youth." 

"Is  he?"  (coldly).  "You  seem  to  set  an  enormous  value 
on  looks." 


DIANA'S  STORY.  59 

"I  think  I  do"  (reflectively).  "I  am  sure  I  do"  (posi- 
tively). "You  cannot  think  what  jileasure  it  is  to  me  to 
feast  my  eyes  on  anything  that  is  good  to  look  at." 

"  And  I  suppose  yon  do  not  stop  to  consider  whether  there 
may  be  any  sterling  qualities  behind  the  exterior  that  pleases 
you?" 

"  Well,  you  know,"  I  reply,  argumentatively,  beginning  with 
a  favorite  form  of  speech  papa  constantly  finds  fault  with, 
"  generally  speaking  if  things  are  good-looking  they  are  good, 
— for  instance,  a  dog  or  a  horse." 

"  And  do  you  think  the  same  applies  to  the  human  animal?" 
(smiling). 

"  I  do  not  know  that  I  have  ever  seen  any  one  very  good- 
looking, — except  papa  and  Curly." 

"  At  all  events,  you  are  very  faithful  to  them.  Still"  (after  a 
moment's  silence),  "  I  should  have  thought  i/ou  would  have 
looked  for  a  little  more  mind  than  Charlie  Montagu's  face 
indicates." 

"  I  don't  think  I  care  for  clever  men,"  I  say,  with  some 
shame.     "  My  heroes  were  never  particularly  clever.     They 

were  brave  as  lions,  and  handsome  as — as "  I  pause  for  a 

metaphor. 

"  Beautiful,  evil-hearted  Paris,"  he  suggests. 

"  Why  will  you  have  it  a  man  cannot  be  good  if  he  is  hand- 
some ?"  I  say,  rather  vexed. 

"  Why  did  you  conclude  this  morning,"  he  asks,  slyly, 
"  that  as  my  sister  was  good  she  could  neither  be  young  nor 
pretty?" 

"  Oh,  that  was  different,"  I  say,  discomfited. 

"  1  think  it  was  deduced  from  the  same  kind  of  reasoning," 
he  says,  laughing ;  and  I  go  away  to  dress. 

On  this  evening  Colonel  Fane  takes  me  in  to  dinner.  Why 
should  I  not  be  delighted?  I  know  and  like  him  ten  times 
better  than  any  one  else  here.     I  wonder  what  sort  of  foolish 


60  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

vague  unacknowledged  hope  that  by  a  fortuitous  concourse  of 
atoms  Captain  Montagu  might  fall  to  my  lot,  or  rather  I  to 
his,  entered  my  foolish  brain. 

"  I  asked  Mrs.  Warrington  to  let  me  take  you  to  dinner," 
says  Colonel  Fane,  triumphantly,  as  we  wend  our  way  through 
the  velvet- carpeted,  antler-  and  banner-hung  hall  to  the  dining- 
room. 

"  Did  you  ?"  I  respond,  trying  to  look  pleased. 

"  She  was  a  little  difficult  at  first,  said  she  had  destined 
you  for  some  one  else ;  but  I  persuaded  her  in  the  end." 

"  Who  was  it  ? — do  you  know  ?"  I  ask,  looking  into  my 
soup  and  trying  to  speak  naturally. 

"Montagu,"  he  replies,  between  two  spoonfuls  of  soup. 

The  flame  shoots  from  brow  to  neck ;  so  hot  the  flush  is,  it 
brings  the  tears  to  my  eyes.  How  thankful  I  am  that  my 
neighbor's  head  is  bent  over  his  plate  !  And  yet  I  am  not 
sure  it  escapes  him,  for  he  says,  dryly,  without  looking  up, — 

"  Not  Charlie ;  his  elder  brother,  who  will  have  the  title 
and  the  money.     You  prefer  the  younger  one,  perhaps?" 

"  Hyperion  to  a  Satyr,"  I  say,  briefly. 

"  You  seem  well  up  in  Shakspeare,"  he  says,  looking  rather 
amused.     "But  why  don't  you  like  Hector?" 

"  He  has  a  cold  sarcastic  manner  that  I  dislike.  I  am  afraid 
of  him." 

"  He  will  have  twelve  thousand  a  year  when  his  father 
dies." 

"  Does  that  make  him  any  nicer  ?" 

"  It  would  in  most  women's  eyes." 

I  glance  down  the  table ;  between  the  ferns  and  gold  plate 
I  get  a  glimpse  of  the  Greek  head.  At  this  moment  it  is 
bending  towards  Mrs.  Huntingdon,  who  is  employing  the 
same  blandishments  upon  him  she  used  upon  Sir  George  last 
night.  He  is  on  her  other  side,  and  evidently  resents  the 
diversion  of  her  attention  from  him.     I  feel  a  slight  pang  of 


DIANAIS  STORY.  61 

jealousy.     Is  it  not   too  ridiculous !     My  memory  supplies 
me  with  another  quotation  from  my  favorite  Shakspeare : 

"  What  am  I  to  Hecuba,  or  what  is  Hecuba  to  me  ?" 

What,  indeed?   and,  thinking  thus,  I  resolutely  turn  from 
contemplation  of  him. 

"  I  wonder  if  it  will  be  a  pleasant  dance  to-night  ?"  I  say, 
forcibly  diverting  the  channel  of  my  thoughts. 

"  I  should  think  it  would  for  you"  (kindly).  "  You  have 
everything  to  make  it  pleasant," 

"  How  so  ?"  I  ask. 

"  Youth  and  health  to  enjoy,  good  looks  to  get  you  part- 
ners, and,  beyond  all,  the  charm  of  novelty." 

"  Fancy  !"  I  remark,  thoughtfully  ;  "  I  am  eighteen  years 
old,  and  I  have  never  been  to  a  dance  !" 

"Delightful!"  he  says.  "I  wish  I  was  eighteen  again,  and 
an  ensign ;  though,  by  the  way,  I  don't  think  I  was  doing 
much  dancing  at  that  age." 

"  No  ?"  (inquisitively).     "  "What  were  you  doing?" 

"  Spending  my  evenings  very  agreeably  in  the  trenches." 

"  Were  you  in  the  Crimea  ?  Did  you  fight  ?  Were  you 
wounded?"  I  ask,  eagerly. 

"  I  was  not  killed,  at  all  events,"  he  replies,  smiling  ;  "  but, 
before  it  is  too  late,  I  want  you  to  promise  me  a  dance.  May 
I  have  the  first  one?" 

"  That  will  be  a  square  one,"  I  say,  with  a  freedom  which 
surprises  myself  "  I  suppose"  (with  a  touch  of  pique)  "  you 
think  I  can't  waltz?" 

"  On  the  contrary"  (looking  amused),  "  I  would  make  a 
very  heavy  wager  on  your  capabilities  in  that  respect.  But 
/do  not  waltz." 

"Do  you  not?"  (rather  disappointed).     "Why  not?" 

"  In  the  first  place,  I  am  getting  old." 
6 


G2  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"  Very,"  I  remark,  derisively. 

"  Aud  ia  tlie  second " 

"  Yes,  in  the  second?" 

"  Well"  (looking  hard  at  me),  "  I  do  not  think  I  ever  told 
any  one  but  my  sister  the  second  reason." 

I  am  silent,  though  curious. 

"  I  don't  mind  telling  you,"  he  says,  suddenly. 

"  Do  !"  I  say,  having  the  feminine  (by  the  way,  why  femi- 
nine ?)  instinct  of  curiosity  strongly  develojDed. 

"  Five  years  ago"  (balancing  a  fork  on  the  edge  of  the 
table  rather  nervously)  "I  was  engaged  to  be  married." 

"  Yes." 

"  I  am  rather  a  jealous  sort  of  fellow,  and  I  hated  to  see 
any  other  man's  arm  round  the  waist  of  my  intended  wife." 

"  Did  you  ?"  I  say,  with  reluctant  disapproval. 

"  Yes,  I  did"  (with  a  little  flash  of  the  eyes)  ;  "  and  1  think 
I  should  do  the  same  now." 

"Should  you?"  I  say,  again,  with  more  pronounced  dis- 
approval. 

"  I. see  you  disagree  with  me"  (a  little  impatiently)  :  "  most 
women  would,  I  suppose.     However,  I  promised  her  that  if 
she  would  leave  off  dancing-  round    dances,  I  would  never 
dance  one  again." 
.     "  You  did  not  care  for  waltzing,  I  suppose?" 

"  On  the  contrary"  (coldly),  "  I  was  passionately  fond  of  it. 
She  promised,  but  some  time  after  that  the  marriage  was 
broken  off:  she  broke  it  off,  and  I  dare  say"  (bitterly)  "has 
danced  to  her  heart's  content  ever  since." 

"  But  surely  that  absolved  you  also?"  I  say,  in  a  surprised 
voice. 

"  I  dare  say.  It  was  a  Quixotic  idea  of  mine,  was  it  not? 
But,  as  I  had  given  my  word,  I  did  not  feel  I  could  take  it 
back  again  because  she  was  untrue  to  hers ;  and,  to  tell  the 
truth,  I  was 


DIANA'S  STORY,  63 

'In  half  disgust  of  life,  love,  all  things,' 

as  Tennyson  says.    But  you  have  not  answered  me  yet.    Will 
you  dance  the  first  dance  with  me  ?" 

"  Yes,  with  pleasure." 

"  And  perhaps  one  or  two  more,  if  I  don't  bore  you  very 
much?" 

"  I  can  answer  for  your  not  doing  that,"  I  reply,  heartily. 

"  Can  you?     I  wish  I  could " 

"  There  is  Mrs.  Warrington  making  signals  already,"  I  in 
terrupt.     "  Dinner  has  not  been  half  so  long  to-night." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  contradict  you,  but,  for  my  vanity's  sake,  I 
must  tell  you  it  has  been  exactly  seven  minutes  longer." 

I  follow  the  trailing  robes  of  the  lady  in  front  of  me  to  the 
drawing-room,  where  Colonel  Fane's  sister  at  once  comes  up 
to  me. 

Looking  back  the  years  (they  are  not  many,  though  they 
have  been  so  full  of  joy  and  pain  to  me  they  seem  many) 
since  that  evening,  I  can  still  distinctly  remember  the  im- 
pression she  made  upon  me.  She  was  quite  different  from 
any  other  woman  I  had  ever  seen.  She  seemed  of  the  world 
but  yet  not  worldly;  there  was  something  so  genial,  so  kind, 
and  yet  so  dignified  about  her.  She  was  almost  the  only  good 
person  I  have  ever  known  who,  being  really  good,  neither  felt 
nor  claimed  superiority  on  that  account,  but  I  verily  believe, 
in  her  true  pure  heart  thought  herself,  what  we  all  so  often 
and  glibly  confess  ourselves  without  even  thinking  of  its 
meaning,  a  sinner.  I  never  remember  to  have  heard  her  con- 
demn another  human  being.  Many  things  were  wrong,  faulty, 
sinful  in  herself,  but  for  others  whose  faults  (as  they  mostly 
could  not  help  but  be)  were  a  thousand  times  more  glaring, 
more  condemnable,  there  were  always  extenuating  circum- 
stances.    She  had  indeed 

"Sweet  lips  whereon  perpetually  did  reign 
The  summer  calm  of  golden  charity." 


64  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

Handsome,  spirited,  full  of  life  and  gayoty,  she  mixed  freely 
in  society,  dressed  well,  talked  well,  was  admired ;  her  influ- 
ence was  not  a  compelling  one,  but  something  subtle,  that 
made  people  in  her  presence  instinctively  desire  to  be  and  seem 
something  better  than  they  had  been  content  to  be  and  seem 
before. 

I  cannot  help  remarking  even  on  this  first  evening  that  I 
meet  her,  as  she  stands  by  the  fireplace  drawing  the  conversa- 
tion gradually  to  be  a  general  one  (which  it  had  certainly 
never  been  before),  how  Lady  Gwyneth  and  Mrs.  Huntingdon 
seem  pleasanter  and  less  fast  and  rude  (I  confess  to  that  having 
been  my  mental  verdict  on  their  manners)  than  before.  She 
enters  with  great  interest  upon  the  subject  of  the  dance,  though 
she  dances  but  little  herself. 

"  I  can't  conceive  why  you  don't  dance  round  dances," 
Mrs.  Huntingdon  remarks,  with  more  of  afiability  in  her  tone 
than  I  imagined  her  capable  of.  "  I  suppose  you  think  it 
wrong?" 

"  Not  at  all ;  it  is  a  very  nice,  healthy  amusement.  Really, 
I  hardly  know  why  I  do  not.  I  don't  think  I  should  care 
much  about  it.  And  now  I  am  getting  too  old, — I  am 
thirty." 

"  I  hope  I  shall  look  as  well  at  thirty,"  says  Mrs.  Hunt- 
ingdon, who  I  am  sure  looks  years  older  than  Miss  Fane. 
"Tell  me:  how  have  you  managed  to  preserve  yourself  so 
wonderfully?" 

"  A  light  heart,  and  not  too  much  brains,  I  suppose,"  she 
returns,  gayly. 

"  Come,  my  dear,"  says  kind  Mrs.  Warrington,  "  I  cannot 
have  you  disparaging  yourself.  You  will  get  no  one  to  agree 
with  you.     Come  ;  it  is  time  we  adjourned  to  the  ball-room." 

"Will  you  come  with  me?"  Miss  Fane  asks  me;  and  I 
give  a  glad  assent.  I  take  an  early  opportunity  of  putting  a 
question  that  has  been  on  my  mind  ever  since  dinner. 


DIANA'S  STORY.  65 

"  Colonel  Fane  was  in  the  Crimea,  was  he  not  ?  Was  he 
wounded  ?     Did  he  distinguish  himself?" 

"  Yes,  both  ;  but  nothing  will  induce  him  to  speak  of  his 
exploits.  He  was  quite  a  boy ;  but  he  did  some  very  gallant 
things,  and  I  know  we  were  all  very  proud  of  him.  There  is 
no  one  to  be  proud  of  him  but  me  now,"  she  says,  rather 
sadly:  "he  is  the  dearest,  kindest  fellow  in  the  world." 

At  this  moment  there  is  a  scraping  of  strings,  a  tuning  of 
instruments,  the  trumpet  sounds  to  battle,  and  Colonel  Fane 
comes  to  bid  me  join  the  fray.  My  heart  beats  with  excite- 
ment, my  hand  trembles  violently  upon  his  arm.  I  can 
scarcely  hear  the  gay  pleasant  words  he  is  whispering  iu  my 
ear.  The  feet-inspiring  music,  the  lights,  the  sight  of  other 
women  airily,  daintily  dressed,  the  hum  of  voices  and  low 
laughter  steal  across  my  senses,  and  I  feel  fairly  intoxicated 
with  pleasure.  I  cannot  restrain  the  smiles  which  will  beam 
and  broaden  across  my  happy  face.  I  dare  not  look  at  any 
one,  for  fear  they  should  think  I  am  laughing  at  them.  Never, 
no,  never  in  all  my  life  have  I  felt  so  radiantly,  excitedly 
happy  as  when  the  band  strikes  up,  and  I  seem  to  swim  across 
the  waxed  floor  to  meet  another  ethereal  being  who  floats  to- 
wards me.  At  this  moment  I  catch  sight  of  Curly's  hand- 
some face,  flushed  with  pleasure,  his  eyes  dancing  with 
excitement,  and  I  see  Colonel  Fane  look  from  one  to  the 
other  of  us. 

"  You  are  envying  us,"  I  cry,  joyously. 

"  No,"  he  answers,  smiling,  "  to  envy  is  to  wish  to  take 
something  from  another.  I  would  not  rob  you  of  a  tithe  of 
your  pleasure,  either  of  you,  for  all  the  world." 


6* 


GG  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 


CHAPTER    VII. 

Diana's  story. 

I  AM  cnizaged  for  the  first  four  dances :  my  second  partner 
is  Mr.  Montagu,  the  elder  brother.  Although  I  do  not  feel 
])articularly  drawn  to  him,  I  am  in  such  a  happy  humor  that 
I  can  sow  pleasant  looks  and  words  broadcast  for  every  one ; 
and  really  he  waxes  pleasanter  on  acquaintance.  I  am  sure 
he  intends  to  be  very  kind  and  civil,  but  long  habit,  I  suppose, 
has  so  confirmed  the  cold  proud  expression  of  his  face,  that 
he  cannot  alter  it  now,  even  at  will.  His  words  are  kind,  and 
he  dances  well,  but  I  am  not  altogether  sorry  when  our  dance 
is  done  and  he  hands  me  over  to  the  cornet  whom  Curly  so 
successfully  sat  upon.  I  do  not  bear  him  the  slightest  malice, 
since  he  got  the  worst  of  the  encounter.  He  is  a  good-look- 
ing, good-natured  young  fellow,  inordinately  proud  of  his 
profession  and  regiment,  and  at  an  age  (as  I  know  by  later 
experience)  when  young  men  give  as  much  consideration  to 
their  clothes  and  appearance  as  any  vain  woman.  But  he  has 
not  shaken  off  college  and  country  life  at  home  long  enough 
not  to  be  thoroughly  full  of  spirits  and  boyish  pranks.  We 
get  on  tremendously  well.  He  dances  perfectly :  we  seem  to 
swim  away  together,  our  pleasure  and  confidence  in  each  other 
waxing  greater  every  moment. 

"  I  say,"  he  remarks,  confidentially,  as  after  a  long  time  we 
pause  for  she(?r  want  of  breath,  "  what  an  awful  lot  of  prac- 
tice you  must  have  had  to  waltz  so  well !" 

"  I  have  never  been  at  a  dance  before,"  I  say,  gleefully, 
looking  up  at  him. 


DIANA'S  STORY.  67 

"  By  Jove!"  in  a  voice  expressive  of  as  much  astonishment 
as  though  I  had  announced  to  him  that  I  had  discovered  the 
eighth  wonder  of  the  world.  "  By  Jove !"  (a  second  time 
even  more  expressive). 

"  I  have  never  waltzed  before,  except  with  Curly,"  (triumph- 
antly). 

"  Curly  again  !"  he  says,  rather  discontentedly, — "  the  uni- 
versally accomj)lished  Curly.     So  you  know  him  too,  do  you?" 

"Yes,"  (with  a  malicious  smile).     "  I  know  him." 

"  And  I  suppose  you  think  him  a  paragon  too  ?"  (a  little 
sulkily). 

"  Indeed  I  do." 

"  As  great  a  paragon  as  Lady  Grwyneth  does  ?" 

"  A  great  deal  more  of  one,"  (indignantly). 

"  Well,  there's  no  accounting  for  tastes,"  he  returns,  pull- 
ing his  incipient  moustache.  "  Now,  I  think  he's  a  self-suffi- 
cient  " 

"  Stop  !"  I  cry,  breathlessly  ;  "  he's  my  brother." 

"  By  Jove  !"  and  until  this  moment  I  could  not  have  con- 
ceived any  one  being  able  to  put  so  much  expression  into  two 
words.  He  blushes,  and  says,  "  I  am  sure  I  beg  you  ten 
thousand  pardons.  I  did  not  catch  your  name  when  I  was 
introduced  to  you;  and"  (looking  hard  at  me)  "you  are  so 
very  unlike  each  other." 

"  I  forgive  you,"  I  say,  laughing;  "and  when  you  know 
him,  you'll  like  him  as  much  as  every  one  else  does." 

"  I  dare  say,"  (politely).  "  I  suppose  I  had  left  Eton 
before  he  went  there.  But  it's  an  awful  shame  to  be  losing 
this  delicious  waltz."  And  off  we  go  again,  uttering  simul- 
taneously a  grievous  "  Oh  !"  as  it  very  soon  after  comes  to  an 
abrupt  conclusion. 
.  "  We  must  have  another,"  cries  Mr.  Tempest. 

I  am  no  way  loath,  but  when  I  see  him  continue  to  make 
hieroglyphics  down  my  card,  I    am  forced    to  remonstrate. 


68  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

What  vain,  foolish,  unacknowledged  hope  makes  me  desire  to 
keep  two  or  three  waltzes  free?  At  the  beginning  of  the  last 
dance,  the  languid  Mrs.  Huntingdon,  marvelously  elegant  in 
clouds  of  tulle,  had  floated  before  me  in  the  arms  of  Captain 
Montagu.  I  could  not  imagine  anything  more  graceful  than 
their  dancing.  Other  couples  were  stopping  to  watch  them 
too.  What  would  I  not  give  to  be  chosen  as  a  partner  by 
him  !  As  at  last  I  divert  my  rapt  gaze  from  the  pair,  I  find 
Colonel  Fane's  eyes  fixed  upon  me,  and  a  little  later  I  see  him 
approach  Captain  Montagu,  who  is  leaning  against  the  wall, 
and  whisper  to  him.  I  see  Captain  Montagu  glance  at  me, 
shrug  his  shoulders  slightly,  and  move  languidly  across  the 
room  towards  me  in  the  wake  of  Colonel  Fane.  I  cannot  tell 
why,  but  in  a  moment  my  heart  gives  a  throb  of  indignant, 
outraged  pride  ;  a  |7ild  instinct  of  flight  seizes  upon  me,  and 
in  a  moment,  before  I  even  know  what  I  am  doing,  I  slip  my 
hand  from  my  partner's  arm,  and,  rushing  through  the  door 
that  is  near,  fly  across  the  hall  and  up  the  stairs,  as  Cinder- 
ella might  have  fled  when  she  found  herself  in  her  rags 
among  the  brilliant  company.  I  will  vouch  for  it  she  was  not 
filled  with  more  biting,  stinging  shame  than  I, — feeling  that 
out  of  kindness  Colonel  Fane  has  asked  him  to  be  introduced 
to  me,  and  that  he  has  felt,  as  I  read  in  his  face,  unmistakably 
bored.  I  sit  on  the  edge  of  my  bed,  blushing  burning  blushes 
both  in  my  face  and  in  my  heart.  Never  have  I  felt  so  mor- 
tified before.  For  in  the  tranquil  life  at  home,  if  there  are 
no  great  pleasures  and  excitements,  neither  are  there  any  heart- 
burnings or  wounded  vanities.  I  feel  very  small.  I  am  already 
ashamed  of  having  yielded  to  my  impulse:  with  the  ignorance 
of  people  unaccustomed  to  the  ways  of  the  world,  I  imagine 
every  one  must  be  commenting  upon  my  strange  behavior.  I 
even  half  expect  some  one  to  come  in  search  of  me.  But  ten 
minutes  elapse,  I  am  still  sitting  on  the  edge  of  my  bed,  and 
I  begin  to  think  I  may  as  well  go  down  again.     So,  shame- 


DIANA'S  STORV.  69 

facedly,  I  creep  down  the  broad  staircase,  and  there  at  the 
bottom  stands  my  disconsolate  partner,  waiting  for  me. 

"I  could  not  think  what  on  earth  had  become  of  you!" 
he  exclaims  at  the  sight  of  me.  "  Did  you  tear  your  dress, 
or  were  you  taken  ill,  or"  (with  a  smile  which  evidently  mocks 
the  extreme  improbability  of  his  suggestion)  "  did  you  want 
to  get  out  of  dancing  with  me  ?" 

I  have  no  answer  ready  to  his  remark.  I  have  not  yet 
learned  the  necessity  and  propriety  of  white  lies  in  society,  so 
am  silent. 

"  I  must  conclude  the  last,  I  suppose,"  he  says,  looking  at 
me  with  an  expression  that  infers  a  doubt  whether  I  am  quite 
right  in  my  mind. 

"  Oh,  no  !"  I  reply,  feebly.    "  Let  us  begin  now,  shall  we  ?" 

"  Considering  that  one  galop  is  over  and  they  are  now 
forming  for  the  Lancers,  that  would  be  difficult,"  he  says 
provoked.  "  I  am  certainly  not  going  to  be  put  off  with 
them." 

"  And  I  am  engaged  to  some  one  else,"  I  say. 

At  this  moment  Mr.  Montagu,  who  is  to  be  my  partner, 
claims  me,  and,  having  promised  another  galop  to  my  indig- 
nant partner,  we  go  to  join  our  set. 

The  Lancers  are  over.  Mercifully,  I  have  encountei-ed 
neither  Colonel  Fane  or  Captain  Montagu.  His  brother  takes 
me  into  the  conservatory,  and  we  are  bending  over  a  lovely 
tea-rose,  when  a  voice  that  makes  me  start  and  tremble  says 
softly  behind  us, — 

"  Hector,  will  you  introduce  me  to  Miss  Carew  ?" 

Mr.  Montagu  scowls  at  his  brother,  but  performs  the  cere- 
mony in  a  frigid  voice. 

He  is  asking  me  to  dance,  in  those  low  pleasant  tones ;  his 
glance  is  caressing  me.  For  a  moment  I  feel  an  impulse  to 
refuse  rudely,  but  there  is  something  stronger  than  I,  and  I 
give  him  my  card.     He  writes  his  name  for  the  eleventh 


70  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

dance, — my  first  disengaged  one, — thanks  me,  and  turns  away. 
Somehow  I  feel  radiantly  happy.  I  keep  saying  to  myself, 
*'  I  am  going  to  dance  with  him ;  it  is  a  long  way  off,  but  I 
am  going  to  dance  with  him."  I  seem  to  tread  on  air  ;  I  am 
so  bright  and  full  of  laughter  that  even  his  stern  brother 
catches  tlic  contagion  and  laughs  without  a  sneer.  I  feel  like 
a  child  who  has  put  its  bonne  honcJie  on  the  side  of  its  plate, 
and  is  looking  at  it  all  the  time  it  eats  its  less  delicious 
morsels. 

The  tenth  dance  is  over ;  the  dowagers  have  gone  off  to 
supper,  and  the  room  is  deliciously  cool  and  clear.  I  am 
waiting  in  eager,  delightful  expectation  to  be  claimed.  The 
strains  of  one  of  Gung'l's  entrancing  waltzes  are  wafted  to- 
wards me.  He  is  not  yet  here.  Oh,  how  grievous  to  lose 
one  bar  of  it !  Two  or  three  men,  seeing  me  sit  partnerless, 
come  and  ask  me  to  dance. 

"  I  am  engaged,"  I  answer  to  each ;  but  still  he  does  not 
come. 

It  seems  utterly  ridiculous,  when  I  look  back,  to  think  I 
could  feel  such  intense  pain  as  I  did  sitting  there,  waiting 
feverishly  as  the  delicious  music  poured  on,  trying  to  wreathe 
my  features  into  a  smile  when  I  was  ready  to  cry  with  passion- 
ate disappointment. 

Curly  comes  up  to  me. 

"ITidlo,  Di !  —  not  dancing?  I'll  find  you  a  partner: 
shall  I?" 

"  I  am  engaged,"  I  answer,  trying  to  make  my  voice  sound 
indifferent,  "  to  Captain  Montagu." 

"  Montagu  !  I  saw  him  not  a  moment  since,  sitting  in  the 
conservatory  with  Mrs.  Huntingdon.  I'll  tell  him  you  are 
waiting:  shall  I?" 

"  Not  for  the  world  !"  I  cry,  hastily.  "  There  is  Colonel 
Fane :  ask  him  to  come  to  me." 

Curly  obeys ;  and  Colonel  Fane  comes  up  at  once. 


DIANA'S  STORY.  71 

"  Will  you  take  me  in  to  supper?"  I  say,  hastily.  "  I  am 
so  hungry  !"  And,  without  even  waiting  for  his  answer,  I  rise 
and  take  his  arm. 

We  go  into  the  dining-room,  and  he  places  me  on  a  low 
velvet  couch  in  a  window. 

"  What  shall  I  get  you  ?" 

"  I  do  not  think  I  am  hungry,  after  all,"  I  say ;  for  I  am 
so  nervous  and  excited,  the  very  sight  of  food  gives  mo  a 
nausea. 

"I  see  you  exert  your  woman's  privilege  of  changing  your 
mind,"  he  remarks,  smiling.  "  Shall  I  get  you  a  glass  of 
champagne?" 

"  Please,"  I  answer  ;  and  when  he  is  gone,  remembering 
that  I  never  drink  wine,  it  occurs  to  me  that  it  may  get  into 
my  head.     So  when  he  returns  I  say, — 

"  If  you  do  not  mind,  I  would  rather  have  a  glass  of  lemon- 
ade or  water,"  (for  my  lips  are  burning  with  thirst). 

Without  a  word,  he  takes  it  away,  and  fetches  what  I  have 
asked  for. 

"  You  must  think  me  troublesome,"  I  say,  apologetically. 

"  I  think  you  are  qualifying  for  a  woman  of  fashion,"  he 
returns. 

I  do  not  know  whether  he  intends  it  as  a  rebuke,  but  I  take 
it  as  such,  and  feel  rather  ashamed. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  says,  sitting  down  by  me,  "  what  made  you 
fly  off  in  such  hot  haste  when  I  was  bringing  Montagu  over 
to  introduce  to  you  ?" 

Colonel  Fane's  is  certainly  a  most  truth-compelling  gaze. 
I  do  not  want  to  tell  him  why  I  fled,  and  I  look  down  at  the 
floor,  round  the  room,  back  at  my  fan,  from  none  of  which 
do  I  receive  inspiration  or  courage. 

"  Because,"  I  say,  at  last,  hanging  my  head,  to  hide,  if 
might  be,  the  hot  shame  that  dyes  my  cheeks,  "  I  thought 
you  were  introducing  him  to  me  because  you  fancied  I  was 


72  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

anxious  to  know  liim,  and   he — he — did   not  seem  equally 
desirous  of  the  honor  of  my  acquaintance." 

"  How  sensitive  you  are !"  he  says,  looking  at  me  compas- 
sionately. "  Besides,  that  is  only  Montagu's  way  of  doing 
everything,  just  as  if  it  were  a  bore.  He  would  probably 
have  done  just  the  same  if  I  had  proposed  to  introduce  him 
to  the  greatest  lady  in  the  land." 

"  Then,"  I  retort,  warmly,  "  had  I  been  the  greatest  lady 
in  the  land,  I  should  have  refused  to  be  introduced  to  him." 

"  Oh !  then  you  have  made  up  your  mind  not  to  know 
him?" 

I  am  silent.  Not  for  anything  in  the  world  can  I  tell  him 
how  Captain  Montagu  has  been  introduced  to  and  how  he  has 
insulted  me. 

At  this  very  moment,  the  man  in  question  enters  the  room 
and  comes  towards  me. 

"  This  is  our  dance,  I  think,"  he  says,  standing  before  me; 
and  as  soon  as  the  words  are  spoken.  Colonel  Fane,  rising, 
moves  away.  As  for  me,  I  am  bewildered :  my  mind  is 
equally  full  of  doubt,  surprise,  and  wrath.  I  look  up  at  him, 
and  answer,  coldly, — 

"  jN"o.     You  asked  me  for  the  last." 

"  Impossible  !"  with  well-feigned  (if  it  is  feigned)  surprise. 
"  Allow  me  to  see  your  card." 

"  You  had  better  refer  to  yours." 

"  Unfortunately,  I  have  dropped  it,"  (looking  concerned;. 
"  I  am  afraid  that  is  how  the  mistake  occurred.  But"  (pei-- 
suasively)  "  will  you  not  forgive  me  and  dance  this  one 
instead  ?" 

"  I  am  engaged." 

"  Cannot  you  throw  the  other  fellow  over  ?"  he  says,  calmly ; 
and  I  reply,  indignantlv, — 

"No." 

"Because,"   he  murmurs,  looking  caressingly  at  me    "I 


DIANA'S  STORF.  73 

should  so  awfully  like  to  waltz  with  you.  I  am  afraid  I  shall 
not  have  another  chance  to-night." 

Could  any  one  believe — could  I  have  believed  myself — that 
I  was  capable  of  being  so  mean,  so  weak-minded  ?  I  feel  vei-y 
small  and  ashamed  of  myself;  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  after 
a  little  more  persuasion  I  yield. 

Trembling  lest  I  should  meet  Mr.  Tempest,  my  bona  fide 
partner,  I  walk,  supported  on  Captain  Montagu's  arm,  back 
to  the  ball-room.  The  music  has  commenced  :  in  the  distance 
I  see  my  cornet  making  for  me,  and  whisper,  desperately, — 

"  Let  us  begin  !" 

A  few  moments  of  the  most  intense  felicity  I  have  ever 
tasted  in  my  life, — the  enchantment  of  the  delicious  music, 
the  airy  floating  motion,  the  touch  of  the  man  I  love.  What 
have  I  said  !  the  man  I  love  ?  Well,  let  it  stand.  I  believe 
I  already  loved  him  then.  Heaven  knows  whether  I  have 
loved  him  since. 

A  few  moments,  then,  of  sweet  intoxication,  and  I  am 
again  leaning  on  his  arm.  with  such  a  beating  heart,  such 
exultation  in  my  eyes,  when  my  Nemesis  arrives.  It  takes 
the  form  of  Greorgy  Tempest,  who,  standing  in  front  of  me 
and  looking  very  black  and  dignified,  says,  "  If  you  Avill  refer 
to  your  card.  Miss  Carew,  I  think  you  will  find  you  are  en- 
gaged to  me  for  this  dance." 

I  stand  convicted,  and  acknowledge  it  by  silence.  Already, 
even,  I  am  reluctantly  drawing  my  hand  away  from  Captain 
Montagu's  arm  ;  but,  pressing  it  tighter,  he  holds  it  there, 
and  says, — 

"  Some  mistake.     Yours  was  the  last :  this  is  mine." 

If  he  expects  me  to  aid  and  abet  his  falsehood  by  another, 
he  must  be  disappointed  in  me,  for  I  still  stand  silent  between 
them.  An  older  man  than  Mr.  Tempest  would  probably  read 
in  my  expressive  face  what  bent  my  inclinations  take,  and 
would  leave  me,  however  annoyed  at  heart,  with  an  acquies- 
D  7 


74  rOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

cent  bow ;  but  Mr.  Tempest  is  only  bent  on  one  thing, — 
■which  is,  to  have  his  own  way  and  not  to  be  outdone  by 
another  man. 

"  May  I  see  your  card  ?"  he  says,  with  angry  persistence. 

"  Don't  show  it  liini,  Miss  Carew,"  interposes  Captain 
IMdutagu,  languidly.  "  He  ought  to  be  satisfied  with  your 
word." 

"  I  sliall  be  perfectly  satisfied  with  Miss  Carew's  word  if 
she  gives  it,"  replies  the  cornet,  looking  unutterable  things  at 
him. 

"  It  is  no  use,"  I  say,  dragging  my  hand  away,  and  with  it 
hope,  delight,  ecstasy:  "I  am  engaged  to  Mr.  Tempest." 

Captain  Montagu  drops  my  hand,  makes  me  a  cold  bow,  and 
retires.     I  may  safely  vary  the  charming  words  of  CEuone — 

"All  1U3'  bi'urt  went  out  to  meet  him,  coming  as  he  came," 

By 

•'  All  my  heart  went  after  him,  going  as  he  went." 

Mr.  Tempest  puts  his  arm  round  me,  and  we  join  the 
waltzers.  Did  I  say  he  danced  well?  He  seems  awkward 
and  clumsy  now.  But  then  all  my  heart  has  gone  out  of  it, 
and  is  standing  leaning  against  the  door  with  a  somewhat 
sulky  expression,  in  the  person  of  Captain  Charles  Montagu. 

"  It  was  awfully  good  of  you  to  confess  the  truth,"  says 
my  partner,  radiantly.  "  One  doesn't  often  get  a  rise  out  of 
that  fellow  jMontagu.  You  don't  regret  it,  do  you  ?"  (eagerly). 
"  I  don't  dance  much  worse  than  he  does,  do  I  ?" 

The  words  with  which  I  answer  him  are  polite,  but  I  am 
conscious  that  my  candid  face  is  very  long  and  doleful.  I  tiy 
to  widen  it  by  a  smile,  but  I  have  an  idea  that  the  result  is 
about  as  truthful  and  becoming  as  one's  reflection  in  the  bowl 
of  a  spoon.  Every  time  we  pause  in  the  dance,  I  glance 
shyly  and  wistfully  towards  that  happy  portion  of  the  wall 
which  is  supporting  the  languid  figure  of  Captain  Montagu.     I 


DIANA'S  STORY.  75 

cannot  catch  his  eye  or  he  might  read  how  genuinely  afflicted 
I  am  ;  but  he  seems  to  look  everywhere  except  at  me. 

The  ball  is  over.  I  am  sitting  by  my  bedroom  fire  in 
^maiden  meditation,  but  not  fancy  free, — oh,  no!  not  fancy 
free !  Twelve  hours  ago  I  had  not  seen  the  man  who  occu- 
pies all  my  thoughts  now.  "  I  do  not  occupy  many  of  his," 
think  I,  forlornly,  for  he  has  taken  no  smallest  notice  of  me 
since  I  drew  my  reluctant  hand  from  his  arm,  but  has  devoted 
himself  entii-ely  to  Mrs.  Huntingdon,  of  whom  I  feel  wildly, 
bitterly  jealous.  My  first  ball  I  Well,  there  has  been  more 
of  pain  than  pleasure  in  it,  though  at  first  it  seemed  to  prom- 
ise so  fair. 


CHAPTER    VIIL 


DIANA  S   STORY, 


The  next  or,  more  correctly  speaking,  the  same  day,  the 
gentlemen  of  the  party  go  out  shooting,  all  with  one  exception. 
Captain  Montagu  has  not  yet  made  his  appearance :  it  is  ru- 
mored indeed  that,  like  a  woman  of  fashion,  he  generally  takes 
tea  and  toast  in  his  room,  and  does  not  appear  until  the  day 
has  been  thoroughly  aired  for  him.  Hearing  this,  I  ought 
naturally  to  be  smitten  with  a  supreme  scorn  of  my  handsome 
ideal,  but  am  not.  I  am  a  very  staunch  friend  :  for  me  "  the 
King  can  do  no  wrong,"  and  whosoever  may  be  king  or  friend 
of  mine  is  safe  from  my,  caviling. 

Lady  Grwyneth  has  gone  with  the  shooting-party.  She, 
like  Mrs.  Huntingdon,  "  cannot  stand  doing  needlework  with 
a  parcel  of  women  in  a  boudoir,"  and  is  so  far  more  fortunate 
than  the  other  in  that  she  can  join  in  most  manly  sports. 


76  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

She  copies  men  to  the  best  of  her  ability,  since,  to  her  infinite 
and  constantly-expressed  regret,  she  has  not  been  born  one  of 
them.  This  morning  she  wears  a  home-spun  Norfolk  jacket 
over  a  short  narrow  velvet  petticoat ;  her  feet  are  incased  in 
laced  boots  of  stoutest  make,  and  gaiters ;  a  wide-awake, 
adorned  with  woodcock's  feathers  shot  by  herself,  crowns  her 
head ;  and  she  shoulders  resolutely  her  own  light  gun,  dis- 
daining to  have  it  carried  either  by  keeper  or  friend. 

She  patronizes  Curly  more  than  ever  this  morning,  to  my 
infinite  disgust,  calls  him  "  dear  boy,"  and  pets  him  with  what 
I  con.sider  ostentatiously  bad  taste.  I,  who  have  heard  and 
read  that  modesty,  delicacy,  and  womanliness  are  most  highly 
commended  and  desired  in  our  sex  by  the  other,  am  at  some 
pains  to  reconcile  the  statement  with  the  evident  populai'ity 
Lady  Gwyneth  enjoys  with  men.  True,  they  treat  her  with 
a  aimernderie  which  savors  more  of  familiarity  than  respect ; 
but  tliat  they  are  amused  in  her  company,  and  seek  it,  is  a 
fact  too  patent  to  be  controverted. 

At  this  period  of  my  life  I  am  not  aware  that  a  woman  who  is 
young,  rich,  and  well-born,  who  has  a  pleasant  house  and  enter- 
tains hospitably,  can  follow,  with  the  world's  toleration  if  not 
admiration,  lier  own  sweet  will,  be  it  never  so  opposed  to  the 
rules  laid  down  for  less  fortunate  mortals.  But  is  she  fortu- 
nate? I  think  not.  I  am  inexperienced  in  the  world,  and 
have  never  had  any  opportunity  of  judging  character,  but  I 
fancy  I  read  in  her  constant  restlessness,  in  the  troubled  ex- 
pression which  now  and  again  flits  over  her  face,  that  she  is 
dissatisfied  with  and  disapproves  of  herself 

Luncheon  is  to  be  sent  to  the  shooting-party  at  two  o'clock, 
and  it  is  ordained  that  Miss  Gore  and  I  shall  join  it  at  a  kind 
of  summer-house  in  the  wood.  Mrs.  Warrington  can  make 
no  arrangement  for  herself  until  she  has  ascertained  Mrs. 
Huntingdon's  pleasure,  and  that  lady  does  not  make  her 
appearance    until    after    the    sportsmen    have    started.       My 


DIANA'S  STORY.  77 

hostess  takes  me  all  round  her  conservatories  and  hothouses, 
— a  real  treat,  for  I  love  flowers  passionately ;  then  she  leaves 
me  to  go  and  see  Claire  Fane,  who  is  suflering  from  a  severe 
headache,  and  bids  me  go  to  her  boudoir  and  amuse  myself 
until  she  joins  me  there.  We  part  in  the  hall,  and  I  bound 
up-stairs  very  much  as  is  my  wont  at  home,  throw  open  the 
boudoir  door,  and  am  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  before  the 
fact  flashes  upon  me  that  I  have  rudely  broken  up  a  tete-a-tete. 
Mrs.  Huntingdon  is  reclining  in  a  low  chair  by  the  fire,  and 
Captain  Montagu,  handsomer,  more  fascinating  than  ever  this 
morning,  leans  against  the  mantel-shelf  close  beside  her.  She 
scowls ;  he  smiles ;  I — need  it  be  said  ? — I  do  what  I  have 
hardly  ceased  to  do  since  I  entered  the  house, — blush  until 
the  water  stands  in  my  eyes.  I  know  not  how  to  act ;  it 
would  surely  look  too  pointed  to  go  out  again,  as  though  they 
were  lovers, — she  a  married  woman  !  So  I  stand  where  I  am, 
and  blurt  out, — 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Warrington  is  wanting  to  see  you,  to  know 
whether  you  will  go  up  to  the  wood  to  lunch  ?" 

"  Thank  you,"  she  returns,  icily.  "  Captain  Montagu  has 
promised  to  drive  me  there  in  the  pony-carriage.  Would  you 
kindly  shut  the  door  ?" 

"  I — I  will  go  and  tell  her,"  I  stammer,  feeling  very  much 
as  though  a  door  had  been  shut  in  my  face. 

"  Pray  don't  go  away,  Miss  Carew,"  says  Captain  Montagu, 
coming  forward.  "  You  look  the  very  incarnation  of  spring. 
You  bring  in  a  volume  of  fresh  air  and  a  scent  of  violets  and 
primroses  and  a  host  of  sweet  things!" 

Bewildered,  flattered  by  his  pleasant  words,  I  hesitate  on 
the  threshold,  my  hand  still  on  the  handle  of  the  door,  un- 
mindful of  Mrs.  Huntingdon's  imperious  command.  She 
gives  a  shiver,  rises,  pulls  her  rich  draperies  about  her,  and, 
with  a  frown  that  reminds  me  of 

"  Great  Here's  angry  eyes," 
7* 


78  FOR   A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

sweeps  past  me  out  of  the  room.  I  feel  and  probably  look 
crestfallen,  for  Captain  Montagu  laughs  lightly,  and  says, — 

"Don't  look  so  frightened!  Looks  don't  kill,  you  know! 
Come  iu,  won't  you?" 

I  shut  the  door,  and  go  forward,  as  I  am  bidden. 

"And  how  did  you  like  the  dance  last  night?"  he  asks,  in  a 
tone  the  patronage  of  which  I  might  resent  from  any  one  else. 

"  Very  much,"  I  say,  taking  oiF  my  hat  and  looking  fixedly 
at  it,  to  prevent  my  eyes  straying,  as  they  long  to  do,  to  his 
face.     "  It  was  the  first  I  ever  was  at." 

"  Really  !"  (with  languid  curiosity).  "  Oh,  then  you  must 
have  enjoyed  it  intensely  !" 

"  Must  I  ?"  I  say,  still  not  looking  at  him.     "  Why?" 

"  Because  I  believe  it  is  delightful  lo  do  anything  for  the 
first  time, — anything  pleasant,  at  least.  At  all  events,  it  can't 
bore  you ;  and  being  bored  is  the  curse  of  most  people's 
lives." 

"  Are  you  often  bored  ?"  I  ask,  looking  at  him  with  a  great 
desire  and  curiosity  to  know  something  of  his  real  feelings. 

"Very  often"  (smiling).  "I  was  bored  last  night  when 
you  forsook  me  for  the  cornet." 

"Were  you?"  I  say,  eagerly.  "So  was  I."  And  tjien, 
smitten  with  shame  at  my  youthful  sincerity,  I  bury  my  face 
iu  a  book  of  photographs. 

"  It  would  have  been  so  easy,"  says  the  seductive  voice, 
wliich  has  come  a  little  nearer, — "  so  easy  to  say  you  were 
en-auvil  to  me." 

^-  But  it  would  not  have  been  true,"  I  answer,  contemplating 
fixedly  the  portrait  of  a  grizzly  warrior  .with 

"An  eye  like  Jove  to  threaten  and  command." 

"  But  you  don't  mean  to  say"  (persuasively)  "  that  you 
think  there  would  be  any  harm  iu  a  little  perversion  of  truth 
like  that  ?" 


DIANA'S  STORY.  79 

"  Yes,  I  tlo,"  I  resiwiid,  stoutly.  "  And  even  if  I  had  said 
it,  my  face  would  Lave  betrayed  me.  And — and  he  would 
liave  felt  mortilied.  I  hate  to  be  mortified  myself.  It  wouldn't 
have  been  doing  as  you  would  be  done  by." 

Charlie  Montagu  languidly  bestrides  the  chair  in  front  of 
me.  I  feel  his  laughing  eyes  (are  they  gray  or  blue? — I  long 
to  look,  but  dare  not)  straying  over  my  face  as  he  says, — 

"  I  was  young  once.  They  taught  me  all  those  nice  moral 
little  sentiments  ;  but  I'm  afraid  I  wasn't  a  good  boy  :  I  didn't 
act  upon  them.  Grood  heavens  !"  (with  a  wicked  little  laugh), 
"  if  people  had  done  to  me  what  I've  many  a  time  done  to 
them,  I  shouldn't  have  liked  it  a  bit !" 

"  Of  course  it's  impossible  for  any  of  us  always  to  do  right," 
I  say,  anxious  to  defend  him  even  against  himself. 

"  But  I  am  always  doing  what  is  wrong,"  he  answers  (mali- 
ciously making  the  worst  of  himself  to  vex  me,  I  believe). 
"  Somehow  I  seem  to  fall  into  it  naturally.  Ask  my  brother. 
He  would  tell  you  I  wasn't  at  all  fit  compan}^  for  such  a  good, 
well-brought-up  little  lady  as  you." 

"  I  should  not  believe  him,"  I  say,  with  some  warmth.  "I 
do  not  believe  you ;  you  only  say  it  to  tease  me." 

I  stop,  horribly  ashamed  of  my  naivete.  Oh,  why  was  I 
suddenly  let  loose  from  my  rustic  life  upon  society  without  any 
preparation  ? 

"No?"  he  says,  softly.  "Would  it  really  tease  you  to 
think  I  was  a  miserable  sinner?"  And  all  this  time  he  has 
never  once  taken  his  eyes  off  me. 

"  I  should  be  sorry  to  think  anybody  was  a  miserable  sin- 
ner," I  answer,  confusedly. 

"  Oh  !"'  (in  a  disappointed  tone, — probably  feigned)  ;  "  then 
you  are  only  a  general  missionary?  you  don't  take  any  par- 
ticular interest  in  me  ?  You  would  be  as  sorry  for  the  foot- 
man or  the  gardener  if  they  were  i'n  a  similarly  unconverted 
state  !" 


80  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"  Don't  l:ui,i;li  at  mo,  please,"  I  say,  looking  imploringly  at 
him.  "  You  know  I  am  only  a  little  country-girl ;  and  I  do 
so  hate  to  be  made  fun  of." 

"  I  ius.sure  you "  he  protests ;  but  just  then  the  door 

opens,  and  Mrs.  Huntingdon  sweeps  in  again,  equipped  all  in 
gray  velvet  and  fur,  only  wanting  a  pleasant  expression  to 
make  her  exceedingly  handsome. 

"  Come,  Charlie,"  slie  says  (whereat  my  heart  gives  an 
indignant  throb),  "  get  ready :  the  ponies  will  be  round  in 
five  minutes." 

"  But  it  is  only  twelve  yet"  (looking  at  the  clock),  "  and  it 
is  not  ten  minutes'  drive." 

"  We  shall  take  a  drive  first,"  she  returns,  imperiously. 
"  I  want  some  fresh  air,  and  so  must  you,  unless"  (with  au 
indefinable  sneer)  "  you  have  imbibed  sufiicient  from  Miss 
Carew." 

I  feel  so  angry,  I  would  I  had  the  wit  to  rejoin  with  some 
polished  sneer  ;  but  the  world  has  not  yet  armed  me  with  its 
subtle  weapons,  so  I  look  more  earnestly  still  at  the  photo- 
graphs. 

"  Tit,  es  ravissa7ite,  ma  belle"  murmurs  Captain  Montagu, 
addressing  Mrs.  Huntingdon,  and  I  cannot  but  concur  re- 
luctantly in  my  own  mind.  I  have  never  seen  so  elegant- 
looking  a  woman.  "  But  such  a  toilette  is  worthy  of  some- 
thing better  than  to-day's  occupation,"  he  resumes.  "  Faugh  ! 
I  know  the  whole  horrid  programme.  A  damp  worm-eaten 
summer-house,  and  lukewarm  Irish  stew  out  of  a  tin  pan, 
and  wedges  of  plum-cake, — that's  the  invariable  memi  of  old 
Warrington's  shooting-lunches.  Much  better  take  a  drive  and 
return  to  lunch  here,  where  we  are  sure  of  having  something 
fit  to  eat." 

I  hold  my  breath  with  fear  lest  she  should  accept  a  pro- 
posal which  would  not  have  cost  me  a  moment's  reflection. 
Mrs.  Huntingdon,  to  my  infinite  relief,  shakes  her  head. 


DIANA'S  STORY.  81 

"  I  must  go  :  I  promised." 

"  Raisoii  de  plus,''  lie  laughs,  going  towards  the  door. 
"  I  did  not  know  a  woman's  promise  was  ever  considered 
binding." 

Mrs.  Huntingdon  sinks  into  her  chair  by  the  fire,  holding 
to  it  alternately  either  small  and  delicately-shod  foot.  Not 
one  word  or  a  look  does  she  condescend  to  fling  to  me,  and  I 
glance  furtively  at  her  with  a  forlorn  conviction  of  how  little 
chance  a  poor  untutored  rustic  like  myself  has  against  her. 
Bit  I  recover  myself  when  I  remember  a  fact  that  I  have 
forgotten  for  the  moment, — she  has  a  hnshand!  Blessed 
thought !     It  restores  peace  to  my  mind. 

Her  fish  has  come  out  of  the  sea  ;  she  has  hooked,  devoured 
him  ;  he  purveys  hir  with  rich  gftrments,  with  much  store  of 
worldly  wealth,  for  which  she  requites  him  with  frowns  and 
sulks ;  but  my  fish  is  still  in  his  native  ocean.  I  have  not 
even  baited  my  hook  yet.  I  may  angle  for  a  triton  or  a 
minnow,  an^  catch — who  knows  ? 

They  are  starting ;  I  watch  them  jealously  from  behind  the 
curtain,  such  a  pair  as  limner  might  desire  to  paint  or  poet  to 
immortalize  in  love-songs.  The  frown  has  gone  from  her 
brow ;  nay,  she  smiles  as  she  looks  up  at  him.  Yes,  she  is 
vay  handsome,  I  tell  myself  reluctantly. 

The  day  seems  dull  and  blank,  now  they  are  gone  and  the 
sound  of  their  laughing  voices  has  died  away.  And  this  time 
yesterday  I  had  not  seen  him.  I  lean  my  arms  on  the  table, 
resting  my  face  between  my  hands.  Whence  comes  this  blank 
feeling  that  spreads  a  chill  over  all  my  being,  that  makes  the 
day  seem  cheerless  even  in  the  noonday  sun,  that  makes  my 
heart  void  because  the  sound  of  one  voice  has  ceased,  that 
makes  space  vacant  because  one  form  is  no  longer  within  my 
horizon  ?  Is  it  love  ?  Oh,  unmaidenly,  immodest  thought ! 
My  very  ears  tingle  with  the  shame  of  it.  Love  for  a  man 
who  has  scarce  spoken  half  a  dozen  words  to  me,  a  man  on 

D* 


82  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

wliuso  mind  I  shall  not  c:\.st  one  faint  reflection.  No  !  no ! 
no  ! — it  is  my  ignorance  of  the  world.  I  have  scarcely  ever 
seen  a  man, — certainly  not  one  like  Captain  Montagu, — and 
my  foolish  eyes  are  dazzled.  As  I  see  more  of  society,  I  shall 
not  be  so  easily  impressed.  See  more  of  society !  I  repeat 
blankly  to  myself:  small  chance  of  that!  And  then  some- 
how a  sort  of  pain  comes  across  me,  a  pain  I  stifle  quickly  as 
ungrateful,  to  think  I  shall  go  back  to  the  old  quiet  life  with 
its  round  of  simple  pleasures  and  duties  that  have  always  been 
enough  for  me  until  now. 

Miss  Gore  disturbs  my  unsatisfactory  soliloquy,  and  we  start 
together  for  the  wood.  She  is  very  bright  and  pleasant  this 
morning,  and  chatters  away  gayly.  True,  her  conversation 
has  mostly  reference  to  her  soldier,  but  she  has  a  sjanpathizing 
if  slightly  envious  auditor  in  me.  To  love,  to  have  your  love 
fully  returned,  to  be  able  to  show,  to  speak  of,  to  be  proud  of 
it !  And  yet,  ignorant  as  I  am  in  love-lore,  I  think  I  would 
prefer  to  invest  it  with  sacreduess  into  which  the  outer  world 
gliould  not  intrude. 

The  shooting-party  comes  up  just  as  we  reach  our  destina- 
tion. Lady  Gwyneth  is  "  iu  great  form,"  as  Curly  would  say: 
she  has  slain  five  pheasants  to  her  own  gun.  I  am  sometimes 
called  absurdly  tender-hearted ;  may  I  ever  remain  so  !  To 
see  poor  animals  suffier  has  always  caused  me  intense  pain.  It 
seems  to  me  if  I  were  a  man  I  could  not  love  or  regard  a 
woman  who  was  callous  to  the  sufi"ering  of  dumb  creatures, 
far  less  one  who  would  delight  to  cause  it.  But  men — at  all 
events  the  men  here — do  not  seem  to  be  of  my  way  of  think- 
ing, for  they  flatter  and  congratulate  Lady  Gwyneth  with 
every  appearance  of  sincerity.  As  for  Curly,  his  admiration 
for  her  has  evidently  increased  fourfold.  Even  Colonel  Fane 
makes  her  a  compliment.  Why  does  he  avoid  me  to-day? 
Have  I  off"ended  him  ?  He  does  not  off"er  to  join  me,  nor  did 
he  take  his  accustomed  seat  next  me  at  breakfast  this  morn- 


DIANA'S  STonr.  83 

ing.  I  suppose  he  is  already  weary  of  me,  despite  his  pro- 
testations yesterday.  No  doubt  it  was  not  very  entertaining 
to  hear  my  simple  gossip  about  our  humdrum  life  at  home, 
only,  as  a  man  of  the  world,  politeness  forbade  him  to  show  that 
he  was  bored.     Mr.  Montagu  has  taken  his  place  at  my  side. 

I  am  sure  I  wish  him  anywhere  else;  he  is  repugnant  to 
me,  somehow, — I  know  not  why.  I  could  give  no  better 
reason  than  the  one  assigned  by  the  person  who  immortalized 
the  unfortunate  Dr.  Fell ;  but  few  reasons  are  more  cogent  or 
un-get-over-able. 

"You  are  not  a  sportsman,  or  rather  sportswoman?"  he 
says,  as  he  joins  me. 

"  No,  indeed,"  I  answer. 

"  You  say  that  very  heartily,"  he  rejoins,  with  a  smile. 
"  Your  tone  almost  implies  a  censure  of  sport  altogether." 

"  Yes,  I  hate  sport,"  I  confess,  frankly :  "  it  always  entails 
misery  and  suffering  upon  something.  But"  (apologetically) 
"  I  suppose  men  must  be  amused,  and  if  they  had  not  some- 
thing to  expend  their  energies  upon  they  would  get  very 
effeminate." 

"  But  confess,  now,  you  think  us  horrible  barbarians  for 
always  wanting  something  to  torture,"  he  says.  "  I  don't 
suppose  it  is  very  manly  to  set  dogs  on  a  poor  timid  hare,  or 
shoot  pigeons  out  of  a  trap,  or  even  set  on  terriers  to  kill  a 
barnful  of  rats ;  and  yet  do  you  know  several  of  your  fair 
sex  whom  I  have  the  honor  to  be  acquainted  with  take  supreme 
delight  in  a  rat-hunt,  and  enjoy  nothing  more  than  to  sit  for 
a  whole  afternoon  exquisitely  dressed  and  watch  hundreds  of 
poor  birds  cruelly  maimed  and  torn  ?" 

"  I  hate  a  cruel  woman  !"  I  say,  vindictively.  "  I  could 
not,  no,  I  could  not  care  for  one  if  I  were  a  man, — not  if  she 
were  as  beautiful  as " 

"  As  what  ?" 

"  As  an  angel,"  I  return,  feeling  the  extreme  difficulty  of 


84  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

finding  a  comparison  that  people  who  make  hasty  and  impul 
sive  remarks  are  wont  to  do. 

"  An  angel !  I  never  saw  one ;  but  their  style  of  beauty 
as  depicted  by  the  limner's  art  has  always  struck  me  as  pecu- 
liarly insipid.  By  the  way,  I  never  remember  to  have  steen  a 
dark  angel ;  and  I  do  not  admire  fair  women.  Then,  accord- 
ing to  your  idea,  I  suppose,  all  women  should  be  tender-hearted, 
religious,  modest,  retiring, — in  short,  everything  that  we  are 
not?" 

Is  he  sneering  at  me  ?  and  why  does  he  look  so  intently  at 
me  ?     I  wish  he  would  not :  his  eyes  always  embarrass  me. 

I  laugh  rather  uneasily. 

"  It  is  not  for  me  to  say  what  women  ought  to  be.  -Besides, 
if  I  set  up  a  standard  I  should  be  expected  to  act  up  to  it : 
should  I  not  ?" 

"  And  I  have  no  doubt  you  would,"  he  answers.  Now  of 
course  I  know  he  is  laughing  at  me :  so  I  say,  coldly, — 

"  I  can  at  all  events  tell  you  what  I  think  about  sport. 
Sport  ought  to  mean  equal  risk  on  both  sides :  hunting  lions 
or  tigoi-s,  wild  boars  or  grizzly  bears, — that,"  I  say,  emphat- 
ically, "  must  be  something  like  sport." 

"  I  am  afraid,"  he  answers,  laughing,  "  that  according  to 
your  ideas  sport  must  remain  unattainable  for  nine  hundred 
and  ninety-nine  men  out  of  a  thousand ;  but,  talking  about 
risk,  I  think  we  get  a  tolerable  chance  of  breaking  our  necks 
out  hunting,  and  I  really  know  few  things  more  perilous  to 
life  and  limb  than  the  present  fashion  of  battue-shootmg." 

'Mr.  Warrington's  hearty  voice  here  summons  us  to  lunch, 
and  at  this  moment  I  see  Captain  Montagu  and  Mrs.  Hun- 
tingdon coming  slowly  up  the  glade.  The  sun  gleams  upon 
them  through  the  branches  of  the  leafless  trees,  making  the 
thick-strewn  leaves  of  many  years  into  a  ruddy  carpet  for 
their  feet :  they  are  in  truth  a  goodly  pair,  I  think,  looking  at 
them  wistfully. 


DIANA'S  STORY.  85 

"Do  you  know  I  am  a  thought-reader?"  says  the  cold 
voice  of  the  elder  brother  beside  me ;  and  I  start,  feeling  a 
positive  terror  of  him.  My  speaking  countenance  probably 
betrays  me,  for  he  turns  his  eyes  away,  and  says,  lightly, — ■ 

"  You  were  thinking  what  a  charming  toilette  Mrs.  Hunting- 
don wears.     She  has  perfect  taste  in  dress." 

But  I  know  that  was  not  what  he  was  going  to  say.  I  feel 
afraid  of  him.     I  almost  dislike  him. 


CHAPTER    IX. 


DIANAS   STORY. 


We  are  seated  at  lunch, — we  four  ladies,  and  as  many  men 
as  the  little  summer-house  can  accommodate,  partaking  of  the 
fare  which  Captain  Montagu  so  contemptuously  predicted ; 
only  it  is  not  lukewarm,  but  very  liot  and  good.  It  is  by  no 
means  despised,  if  we  may  judge  by  the  zest  with  which  the 
party  fall  to,  Captain  Montagu  included.  He  throws  me  a 
little  comic  smile  across  the  table. 

"  L^appitit  vient  en  mauffeaiif,^^  he  says. 

"  Mine  came  before,"  I  answer,  in  the  same  tone. 

"  What  is  the  joke?"  asks  the  elder  brother,  who  is  lean- 
ing against  the  doorpost,  eating  his  lunch  under  difficulties. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  don't  be  inquisitive.  Let  Miss  Carew 
and  I  have  our  little  secrets." 

"  By  all  means,"  returns  Mr.  Montagu,  coldly,  looking  any- 
thing but  pleased. 

For  my  part,  he  may  frown  as  much  as  he  likes,  as  long  as. 
his  brother  smiles  upon  me. 

I  am  delighted  to  notice  that  Captain  Montagu  has  left  Mrs. 


86  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

Iluntingdon,  even   though  he  is  devoting  himself  to  Lady 
Gwyiicth,  whom  of  the  two  perhaps  I  dislike  the  more. 

"Have  you  heard  of  my  prowess?"  she  asks  him,  with 
great  glee.  "  Two  brace  and  a  half  of  pheasants,  and  all 
rocketers !" 

•'  Delightful !"  he  utters,  in  his  lazy,  pleasant  voice.  "  IIow 
charming  to  have  a  wife  who  does  all  the  hard  work  !  I  hope 
Desborough  appi'eciates  it." 

"  If  I  were  only  a  man,  I  wouldn't  mind  any  amount  of 
hard  work,"  she  rejoins.  "I  should  be  no  carpet-knight,  I 
promise  you." 

"  Like  me,  for  instance  !"  (smiling). 

"  Yes,  like  you.  You  would  make  a  lovely  woman,  and 
could  dawdle  about  all  day  choicely  appareled.  While  I — if 
I  were  you — would  catch  big  salmon,  hunt  six  daj^s  a  week  in 
the  season,  shoot  when  there  was  a  frost,  and — and — I'd  go 
to  Mexico  and  shoot  a  grizzly.  Oh  to  have  had  the  im- 
measurable privilege  of  being  born  a  man  and  to  abuse  it  so 
shamefidly !" 

"  You  might  retaliate,  I  think,  Charlie,"  interposes  Mrs. 
Huntingdon,  maliciously.  She  calls  him  Charlie  before  her 
husband,  and  no  one  looks  surprised.  Perhaps,  though,  they 
are  very  old  friends. 

"  I  never  argue  with  a  lady,"  he  answers,  with  lazy  good 
nature.  "  With  my  deplorable  want  of  energy,  I  should  be 
sure  to  get  the  worst  of  it." 

At  this  moment  I  happen  to  glance  at  Hector  Montagu,. 
and  see  him  cast  a  look  of  supreme  scorn  upon  his  handsome 
brother.  Yes,  I  positively  dislike  him.  Lady  Gwyneth  takes 
no  notice  of  Mrs.  Huntingdon's  remark,  but  continues,  petu- 
lantly : 

"  Men  have  everything,  we  have  nothing." 

"  I  think  we  have  a  gTcat  many  privileges,"  drawls  Mrs. 
Huntin<jdon. 


DIANA'S  STORY.  87 

,    "  What  may  they  be?"  flashes  out  Lady  Gwyneth. 

"  We  always  have  everything  done  for  us.  We  don't  have 
to  interview  bailiffs,  or  pay  bills,  or  buy  horses,  or  look  after 
any  horrid  details.  We  have  the  best  places  everywhere.  We 
sit  comfortably  at  the  opera,  whilst  unhappy  men  have  to  stand 
behind  us  on  one  leg." 

"  Pshaw  !"  utters  Lady  Gwyneth,  contemptuously.  "  I 
always  interview  the  bailiff  and  pay  the  bills ;  and  as  to  let- 
ting Harold  buy  a  horse,  I  should  as  soon  think  of  flinging 
the  money  out  of  window  at  once.  And  as  for  having  the 
best  seats  everywhere,  I'd  rather  stand  than  sit,  any  day, — 
yes,  and  stand  on  one  leg  all  my  life,  for  the  inestimable 
privilege  of  being  a  man.  Men  can  always  do  something, 
always  yo  somewhere,  when  they  are  bored  ;  while  we  have  to 
sit  at  home  and  curse  our  fate." 

"  Lady  Gwyneth,"  interposes  Captain  IMontagu,  laughing, 
"you  are  astonishing  Miss  Carew.  See  how  shocked  she 
looks." 

Oh,  how  could  he  be  so  unkind  ?  If  I  am  silly  and  igno- 
rant enough  to  show  what  I  think  in  my  unmanageable  face, 
surely  he  need  not  be  the  one  to  call  down  retribution  upon 
me. 

"  Girls  should  be  kept  in  the  school-room  till  they  know 
how  to  behave  in  society,"  says  Lady  Gwyneth,  with  aggressive 
rudeness. 

I  feel  so  angry, — I  never  knew  until  this  moment  that  I 
had  so  hot  a  temper.  Reply  is  on  my  lips,  but  ere  I  have 
time  to  unclose  them  a  champion  is  at  hand. 

"  I  quite  agree  with  you.  Lady  Gwyneth,"  utters  Colonel 
Fane's  quiet  voice.  "  I  do  not  think  innocent  minds  are  likely 
to  derive  much  benefit  from  listening  to  the  conversation  of 
men  and  women  of  the  world." 

"  Hear  !  hear  !"  says  Mr.  Montagu. 

It  is  Lady  Gwyneth's  turn  to  redden  with  angei\     Mrs. 


88  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

Huntingdon  knits  her  dark  brows  closer  together,  but,  before 
cither  has  time  to  say  anything,  Mr.  Warrington's  jolly  fiice 
appears  in  the  doorway,  and  he  calls  out, — 

"  Come,  it's  time  to  be  off  again  !" 

But  some  of  the  sportsmen  show  signs  of  defection.  Sir  • 
George  has  made  up  his  mind  to  go  back  with  Mrs.  Hunting- 
don ;  Miss  Gore  has  evidently  tampered  with  her  soldier ;  and 
Mr.  Montagu  says  in  an  undertone  to  me, — 

"  I  would  much  rather  walk  with  you.  I've  had  quite 
shooting  enough  for  to-day." 

But  I  answer,  quickly,  "  I  think  Mr.  Warrington  will  not 
like  to  have  his  party  broken  up ;"  and  he  says  no  more. 

Keepers  and  dogs  are  waiting  at  a  respectful  distance  ;  the 
men  who  mean  shooting  are  shouldering  their  guns  ;  I  am  re- 
flecting that  I  shall  be  left  to  the  pleasure  of  my  own  com- 
pany,— when  Captain  Montagu  turns  towards  me  and  says, — 

"  3Iiss  Carew,  shall  we  console  each  other  ? — we  seem  to 
stand  a  fair  chance  of  being  deserted  by  our  cruel  friends,  like 
the  babes  in  the  wood." 

Probably  the  pleasure  I  feel  at  this  proposal  shines  from 
my  eyes.  Hector  Montagu  looks  sharply  at  me,  and  turns 
to  go. 

"  Take  my  gun,  Charlie !"  cries  Sir  George  over  his 
shoulder  (with  questionable  taste,  /think)  ;  "  exchange  is  no 
robbery." 

"  Thank  you,"  says  Mrs.  Huntingdon,  haughtily. 

"  Something  better  than  his  rjun,  a  little  dearer  than  his  dog," 

laughs  Captain  Montagu,  maliciously,  paraphrasing  the  poet- 
laureate. 

I  suppose  poor  little  Sir  George  meant  to  be  funny,  and, 
like  many  other  people,  did  not  know  until  he  was  told  that 
he  had  been  rude.  At  all  events,  I  see  him  doing  his  best  to 
make  the  amende  as  they  stroll  down  the  glade  together.     I 


DIANA'S  STORY.  89 

■wonder  at,  though  I  bless,  the  taste  that  has  made  Mrs.  Ilun- 
tingdou  give  up  one  escort  for  the  other. 

"Is  not  this  the  way  home?"  I  say,  as  Captain  Montagu 
turns  his  steps  in  the  opposite  direction  from  that  by  which 
we  came. 

"  You  are  not  thinking  of  going  home,  surely,"  he  answers. 
"  Why"  (yawning),  "  what  on  earth  will  you  do  with  your- 
,  self  all  the  afternoon  ? — it  is  an  eternity  to  dinner-time.  Let's 
do  the  '  truly  rural,'  and  get  rid  of  the  odious  souvenir  of  Irish 
stew.  Faugh  !  it's  a  barbarous  dish,  though  it  seemed  pleas- 
ant for  the  moment." 

Taking  him  at  his  word,  I  start  at  a  good  round  pace  for  a 
constitutional. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Carew,"  he  cries,  plaintively,  in  about  a 
minute,  "have  you  borrowed  the  seven-league  boots?  Have 
mercy  on  a  miserable  victim  to  patent  leather  and  corns  !" 

"  Corns !"  I  repeat  (desperately  discomfited  by  the  thought 
of  a  hero  with  corns).  "  Corns!"  (looking  down  involuntarily 
at  his  shapely  feet)  ;  then,  with  the  triumph  of  faith  and  sight 
too,  "  I  don't  believe  you  !" 

"  Well,"  he  rejoins,  laughing,  "  it  isn't  my  fault  if  I  haven't ; 
but  please  consider  that  I  have,  and  suit  your  pace  to  the 
idea." 

So  we  saunter  on,  side  by  side,  in  the  pleasant  afternoon 
sun,  across  the  crackling  leaves,  out  into  the  open.  He  talks 
away  in  a  merry  half-ironic  vein,  and  if  my  sense  does  not 
approve  of  all  he  says,  woman-like,  since  the  speaker  pleases 
me,  my  heart  finds  no  fault.  I  do  not — I  will  not — believe 
that  he  is  as  selfish  as  he  seems  to  take  pleasure  in  painting 
himself:  surely  nature  would  not  delight  to  cheat  one  by 
making  such  beautiful  windows  as  his  eyes  to  a  soul,  to  find 
when  one  looked  through  them  only  something  worse  than 
nothingness.  Even  irrational,  inconsequent  mortals  do  not 
put  stained-glass  windows  into  a  barn;  an  1  should  the  fair 

8* 


90  FOR  A    WOMAyS  SAKE. 

goddess,  wlio  docs  all  tilings  well,  be  more  foolish  and  capri- 
cious than  they  ? 

We  have  arrived  at  a  stile  ;  he,  peLidoning  me  to  rest,  leans 
against  a  post  beside  it,  whilst  I,  sitting  perched  upon  it, 
hearken  unto  his  discourse. 

"  Your  charming  sex,"  he  is  saying,  "  always  get  cherished 
and  taken  care  of,  but  what  s  to  become  of  poor  fellows  like 
me  if  we  don't  look  after  ourselves  ?  And  you  have  no  idea 
what  selfish,  crotchety  old  brutes  fathers  are.  Now,  don't 
look  indignant.  I  know  you  adore  yours.  I  mean  men's 
fathers.  Sometimes  I  make  a  feeble  attempt  to  get  mine  to 
see  reason,  but  he  won't.  I  know  lots  of  fellows  who've  got 
the  same  sort  of  fathers.  I  begin  by  saying  to  him,  suavely, 
'  Pray,  sir,  did  I  come  inta  the  world  for  my  pleasure  or 
yours?'  To  which  he  replies,  with  asperity,  'Not  for  mine, 
begad,  or  I'd  have  had  something  better  than  a  confounded 
puppy  like  youl' " 

I  laugh,  not,  I  think,  because  his  story  is  very  amusing, 
but  because,  standing  there,  the  winter  sun  shining  warmly  on 
his  face,  as  though  it  loved  him,  his  eyes  shine,  his  lips  curve 
in  smiles,  and  he  looks  so  radiantly  full  of  spirits  I  cannot 
help  but  smile  too  for  sympathy.  I  am  sure  there  was  never 
a  more  sincere  adorer  of  good  looks  than  I.  Be  it  man, 
woman,  child,  dog,  horse,  picture,  scene,  statue,  if  it  is  beau- 
tiful my  heart  goes  out  to  it  for  its  n:>ere  beauty's  sake.  It  is 
an  instinct  implanted  in  me  by  nature.  I  cannot  alter  it ;  I 
would  not  if  I  could. 

"  To  which  I  reply,"  he  proceeds,  laughing,  "  that  granted 
we  are  neither  of  us  responsible  for  my  existence,  still,  as  I 
nm  in  the  world,  I  require  to  be  clothed,  fed,  and  lodged  like 
my  fellow-men,  and  that,  as  he  has  the  onus  of  being  my 
progenitor,  he  is  bound  to  provide  me  with  the  means." 

"  I  would  work  for  my  living,"  I  say,  energetically,  with  a 
forlorn  liope  of  stimulating  him  to  independence. 


DIANA'S  STORY.  91 

"  Work  !  my  dear  Miss  Carew,  work  !  but  I  positively 
slave  !  You  little  dream  of  the  frightful  fatigue  and  exposure 
I  incur  in  the  service  of  an  ungrateful  country.  Could  you 
but  conceive  the  toil  of  field-days  in  the  Park  in  a  July  sun, 
of  going  the  rounds  on  winter  nights,  of  marches,  reviews, 
guards  of  honor,  above  all  barrack  duty.  Fancy  being  dragged 
out  of  bed  at  half-past  seven  in  the  morning  to  go  and  inspect 
slaughtered  carcases,  followed  by  a  minute  examination  of  the 
men's  rooms,  to  see  if  they've  hidden  their  boots  in  their 
beds,  spilt  grease  on  the  table  or  floors,  or  committed  any 
other  atrocity;  from  there  into  the  kitchen,  to  be  poisoned  by 
the  smell  of  onions — faugh  !  that  reminds  me  of  that  horrible 
Irish  stew  we  had  for  lunch." 

"No?"  I  say,  inquisitively;  "do  you  really  have  to  do 
such  things  ?  I  thought  the  Guards  had  nothing  to  do  but 
to  wear  fine  clothes,  look  magnificent,  and  allow  themselves  to 
be  admired." 

He  laughs. 

"  That  is  the  popular  superstition.  There  is  no  class  of 
men  so  fatally  misunderstood  as  we  poor  Guardsmen.  We 
ought  to  have  a  chapter  devoted  to  us  in  that  book  called 
'  Things  not  generally  known.'  Why,  there  are  lots  of  peo- 
ple, in  spite  of  that  sweet  thing  in  memorials  in  Waterloo 
Place,  who  firmly  believe  we  never  go  to  war." 

"  Well,"  I  say,  pleased  to  find  he  does  not  live  altogether 
the  self-indulgent  and  sybaritic  life  I  had  imagined.  "  I  had 
no  idea,  really,  that  you  had  to  work  so  hard." 

"  Oh,  I  haven't  half  finished  yet.  After  the  onions  I  go 
to  the  tailor's  and  shoemaker's  shops,  where  the  bouquet  of 
leather  is  most  refreshing ;  then  I  go  r  und  the  messes  to  see 
if  the  men  have  any  complaints  to  make  about  their  dinner ; 
then,  for  a  little  agreeable  diversion,  to  the  hospital, — after 
which  it  is  quite  on  the  cards  that  I  may  have  the  delightful 
amusement  of  drilling  defaulters  for  an  hour  in  a  blazinir  sun. 


92  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

Now,  then"  (looking  at  me  with  a  triumphant  smile),  "have 
I  vindicated  my  character,  and  do  you  still  wonder  that  I  take 
every  opportunity  of  recruiting  my  shattered  forces  ?" 

"  And  docs  your  father  know  all  this  ?"  I  ask. 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  constantly  remind  him  of  it,  and  he  says, 
pish  !  and  pshaw  !  and  pooh  !  By  the  way,  Miss  Carew,  you 
are  the  latest  from  school, — what  part  of  speech  are  pish  and 
pshaw  and  pooh  ?" 

"Interjections?"  I  hazard,  timidly,  not  being  great  in  the 
rules  of  grammar. 

"  Interjections,"  he  repeats,  with  more  assurance.  "  Yes, 
I've  no  doubt  that's  it.  My  father's  tremendously  fond  of 
interjections.  Now,  to  let  you  into  more  family  secrets,  that 
unreasonable  old  gentleman  is  always  making  a  deuce  of  a 
row  because  I  spend  double  what  he  allows  me,  sometimes 
more.  Now,  I  put  it  to  you,  do  you  think  a  father  has  any 
right  to  send  you  into  an  expensive  regiment,  where  most  of 
the  fellows  are  or  will  be  well  off,  and  not  allow  you  enough 
to  live  decently  and  comfortably  on  ?" 

"  No,"  I  respond,  warmly,  "  I  don't.  I  think  it  is  very 
unfair." 

"  Of  course  it  is,  my  dear  Miss  Carew  !  I  knew  you  would 
say  so.  I  saw  from  the  first  that  you  were  sympatMque.  As 
a  rule,  you  can't  conceive  how  frightened  I  am  of — of  unmar- 
ried ladies." 

"  Frightened?"  (with  an  incredulous  laugh). 
"  Yes,  frightened,  positively.  But,  as  I  was  telling  you, 
my  father  has  twelve  thousand  a  year,  and  no  expenses  but 
keeping  up  the  place.  Hector  is  not  extravagant,  and  there 
are  no  girls,  thank  Heaven,  to  want  dowries,  and  yet  he  has 
the  indecency,  I  can  call  it  nothing  less,  to  think  I  can  live 
on  six  hundred  a  year." 

"  Six  hundred  a  year  !"  I  echo.  "  Why,  papa  and  I  and 
Curly  have  not  more  than  that  to  live  upon." 


DIANA'S  STORY.  '  93 

"  Wonderful  !"  he  says,  not  really  looking  surprised,  for  I 
suppose  he  as  well  as  everybody  else  knows  how  poor  we  are. 
"It  is  extraordinary  how  some  people  can  do  everything  upon 
nothing,  and  do  it  better,  too,  very  often,  than  their  richer 
neighbors." 

"  But,"  I  say,  looking  at  him  very  doubtfully,  "  do  you 
really  mean  to  say  that  you  don't  think  six  hundred  a  year 
enough  to  live  upon  ?" 

"Not  half!"  shaking  his  head;  "honestly  and  truly,  not 
haJfr 

Seeing  that  I  am  still  incredulous,  still  unconvinced,  he 
says,  laughing, — 

"  Ah,  it  is  very  evident  you  don't  know  much  about  the 
great  Babylon,  nor  the  wants  of  the  dwellers  therein.  But, 
take  my  word  for  it,  six  hundred  a  year  is  only  a  drop  in  the 
ocean,  even  if  one  were  not  a  careless  fellow  like  me,  with 
refined,  not  to  say  expensive,  tastes.  Don't  look  so  horrified ! 
I  don't  cheat  anybody.  My  father  is  the  only  suiferer,  and 
it  is  a  capital  thing  for  his  liver  to  have  a  little  genuine  excite- 
ment now  and  then.  I'm  so  desperately  unlucky,  -too,  in  my 
attempts  to  turn  an  honest  penny :  if  I  back  a  horse  it  is 
certain  to  go  wrong,  and  at  cards  I  hardly  ever  know  the  sen- 
sation of  holding  a  trump." 

I  cannot  help  sighing, — it  seems  so  sad  to  think  of  him 
frittering  away  his  life  on  such  vanity  and  frivolity,  when  he 
looks  like  a  hero,  and  ought  to  "  ride  abroad,  redressing  human 
wrongs."  I  have  no  right  to  preach  to  him  :  it  is  impertinent, 
presumptuous.  What  do  I  know  of  life,  that  I  should  advise 
or  warn?  And  yet  I  feel  such  an  intense  admiration  for  him, 
I  want  him  to  be  good  and  noble  inwardly  as  he  is  outwardly. 

"  Don't  you  think,"  I  say,  coloring  deeply,  but  putting  all 
the  earnestness  I  feel  into  my  voice, — "  don't  you  think  there's 
something  better  and  nobler  in  the  world  than  just  merely  to 
live  for  one's  own  pleasure  and  gratification?    Oh,  if  you  saw, 


94  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

like  I  do,  people  so  poor,  so  hungry,  so  wanting  every  bare 
necessary,  I  know  you  would  not  feel  haj)py  to  think  of  squan- 
dering away  money  on  things  you  don't  want  and  that  can't 
give  you  any  real  pleasure." 

Thinking  over  it  afterwards,  I  could  not  in  the  least  realize 
how  I  found  boldness  to  say  such  things  to  him,  a  stranger, 
II  man  of  fashion,  one  of  the  world's  spoiled  darlings.  I  won- 
der if  any  other  girl  or  woman  ever  ventured  to  speak  such 
truths  to  him.  Ah,  I  think  they  would  have  done  so  if  they 
had  desired  his  good  as  earnestly  as  I  did. 

When  I  have  finished  my  sentence,  I  feel  abashed,  and 
quite  expect  him  to  resent  my  rudeness  ;  but  he  does  not. 
He  looks  a  little  surprised,  a  pleasant  smile  curves  his  hand- 
some mouth,  and  he  says, — . 

"  What  a  charming  little  priest  it  is  !  I  shouldn't  wonder 
if  I  became  quite  a  converted  and  respectable  character  if  I 
had  you  to  talk  to  me  often.  You  would  soon  be  able  to  show 
me  about  in  a  caravan,  as  a  tamed  heathen." 

I  cannot  help  smiling  as  I  remember  the  conversation  be- 
tween Lady  Gwyneth  and  Mrs.  Huntingdon. 

"  I  am  not  such  a  very  wicked  fellow,  after  all,"  he  goes  on, 
plaintively.  "  Now,  if  you  want  a  sinner  it  would  be  a  real 
credit  to  convert,  you'll  have  a  chance  to-night.  Rexborough 
is  coming.  Do  you  know  him  ?  You  must  have  heard  of 
him." 

"  I  dare  say  not  to  know  him  argues  myself  unknown,"  I 
make  answer,  "  but  I  have  never  even  heard  his  name.  "Who 
is  he?" 

"  He  is  Lord  Rexborough,  a  wicked  nobleman,  like  the 
heroes  of  some  flishionable  novels,  with  a  cruel  jaw  and  a 
columnar  throat,  deep-chested  and  thin-flanked,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing,  you  know." 

"Why  does  Mrs.  Warrington  invite  him?"  I  ask,  inno- 
cent'y. 


DIANA'S  STORY.  95 

"  Oil"  (laughing),  "  he  is  not  so  wicked  as  to  be  out  of  the 
pale  of  good  society,  and  he  is  very  popular.  He  isn't  a 
carpet-knight  like  me :  he  hunts  lions  and  tigers  and  bears, 
and  Heaven  knows  what!  I  dare  say  you  will  be  enormously 
taken  with  him, — won't  look  at  me  afterwards,  I  shouldn't 
wonder." 

I  laugh  a  low  small  laugh  to  myself.  Then  I  say,  descend- 
ing from  my  perch  before  he  has  time  to  proffer  assistance, — 

"  We  must  be  going  home." 


CHAPTER   X. 


DIANA  S    STORY. 


I  FIND  it  a  very  unwelcome  exchange  when,  an  hour  or  so 
later,  the  party  being  all  assembled  at  five  o'clock  tea,  I  have 
to  listen  to  and  ansM'er  his  elder  brother.  He  came  up  to  me 
as  soon  as  I  entered  the  room,  looking  half  displeased  and  yet 
as  though  he  were  trying  to  conquer  the  feeling. 

"  Well,  did  you  have  a  very  delightful  walk  ?"  he  asks,  in 
that  cold,  rather  sneering  voice  which  always  chills  me. 

"  Yes,"  I  reply,  stoutly,  "  it  was  very  pleasant.  The  sun 
was  quite  warm.     We  sat  on  a  stile  for  a  long  time." 

"  Indeed !"  (knitting  his  brows  with  evident  displeasure). 
"  A  delightful  occupation  for  a  January  afternoon  !" 

"  It  was  quite  warm,"  I  answer,  a  little  maliciously  (what 
right  has  he  to  question  my  actions  ?),  "and  we  were  talking." 

"  Conversations  at  second-hand  are  not  generally  amusing," 
he  says,  in  his  most  objectionable  tone,  "but  might  I  be 
privileged  to  ask  what  was  the  subject  of  a  discourse  so  en- 
chaining as  to  make  you  oblivious  of  cold?" 


96  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"  Your  brother  was  talking  to  me  about  London  and  de- 
scribing his  life  there." 

"  Really?"  (raising  his  eyebrows  about  half  an  inch) :  "  that 
must  have  been  a  very  improving  conversation  for  you !" 

"  It  was  very  improving  for  me,  I  can  tell  you,"  breaks  in 
the  voice  of  his  brother,  who  has  been  standing  a  little  way 
off  with  his  back  to  us,  and  now  turns  round.  "  Miss  Carew 
thinks  me  a  shocking  bad  fellow,  and  has  taken  my  conver- 
sion in  hand.     She  began  this  afternoon." 

Oil  that  the  earth  would  open  and  swallow  me !  I  feel  as  if 
I  should  like  never  to  see  or  speak  to  him  again. 

"  Miss  Carew  seems  to  think  she  has  a  general  vocation  for 
remodeling  society,"  sneers  Lady  Gwyneth. 

"  Oh,  Lady  Gwyn  !"  cries  Curly,  flushing  a  little,  "  you 
mustn't  be  down  on  Di,  please.  You  know  she  has  never 
been  out  before." 

Poor  dear  fellow  !  he  meant  to  champion  me,  but  of  the 
two  I  think  Lady  Gwyneth's  speech  was  the  less  crushing. 
I  bury  my  face  in  a  book,  utterly,  thoroughly  discomfited. 
Mr.  Montagu  is  evidently  sorry  for  me,  and  tries  to  say  some- 
thing encouraging ;  but  I  do  not  even  reply. 

At  this  juncture  Lord  Rexborough  is  announced.  I  look 
up,  prepared  to  adore  the  man  who  has  diverted  attention 
from  me.  His  big  frame  looms  in  the  doorway.  Now  he  is 
the  centre  of  a  group  over  which  he  towers  by  a  head.  No  ! 
T  am  grateful  to  him,  but  I  shall  not  like  him !  Mr.  Montagu 
goes  forward,  so  I  am  at  leisure  to  contemplate  the  new 
arrival.  His  hair  and  board  are  coal-black  (I  have  a  rooted' 
dislike  to  very  dark  men)  ;  his  face  is  bronzed,  the  features 
large  and  coarse,  particularly  the  mouth,  which  protrudes 
from  under  the  heavy  moustache.  I  suppose  he  is  at  his  best 
now,  responding  cordially  to  cordial  greetings,  but  his  smile, 
to  my  mind,  is  anytliing  but  pleasant, — it  is  bold  and  familiar, 
— and  his  voice  is  lond,  his  manner  boisterous. 


DIANA'S  STORY.  97 

"  I  see  the  new-comer  has  not  disphiced  yesterday's  arrival !" 
whispers  Colonel  Fane,  who  has  come  up  to  me. 

"  I  hope  no  one  will  ever  ask  me  out  again,"  I  retort, 
pettishly ;  "  everything  1  say  is  wrong,  and  when  I  am  silent, 
people  seem  to  know  what  I  am  thinking  about.  It  is  very 
evident  I  am  not  fit  for  society,  and  it  will  be  a  good  thing 
when  I  am  back  with  my  pigs  and  chickens." 

He  looks  at  me  in  some  surprise. 

"  Now  I  know  what  yo?{  are  thinking,"  I  say,  laughing  in 
spite  of  myself.     "  You  had  no  idea  I  had  such  a  temper." 

"  It  is  quite  right  to  have  a  spirit,"  he  answers,  "  and  you 
have  been  bullied  shamefully.     Please  forgive  me  my  share." 

"  I  forgive  you,"  I  say,  and  then,  reddening  a  little,  "  I 
cannot  help  thinking  you  have  something  to  forgive  me  too." 

"I?"  he  rejoins,  looking  surprised.     ''I?" 

"I  thought,"  I  murmur,  a  good  deal  confused,  "you  were 
a  little  offended  at  supper  last  night.  I — I  gave  you  so  much 
trouble,  and  you  went  away  and  did  not  speak  to  me  again, 
and  you  have  not  spoken  to  me  all  to-day." 

He  laughs. 

"  I  have  been  doing  penance  in  keeping  away,"  he  says. 
"I  have  a  great  mind  to  tell  you  why." 

"  Oh,  do  !"  I  cry,  eagerly. 

"  Do  you  promise  not  to  betray  me  ?"  he  whispers,  looking 
round  cautiously. 

"  Yes,  faithfully." 

"  Mrs.  Warrington  told  me  I  had  monopolized  you  too 
much,  and  that  I  might  be  standing  in  your  light." 

"  How  ?"  I  ask,  and  yet  with  an  uneasy  suspicion  of  what 
he  means. 

"  As  I  told  you,  Hector  Montagu  is  the  heir  to  a  fine 
property,  and  Mrs.  Warrington,  who,  like  all  good  women,  is 
a  matchmaker,  has  selected  you  for  him,  or,  I  should  say  him 
for  you." 

E  9 


98  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

My  breath  comes  quickly,  and  I  answer,  in  an  eager 
whisper, — 

"  I  do  not  like  him  ;  I  quite  dislike  him  ;  and  please  don't 
believe  I  am  so  conceited  as  to  fancy  he  thinks  anything  of 
me,  but  promise  me,  oh,  do  promise  me,  Colonel  Fane,  that  if 
ever  you  see  him  talking  to  me  you  will  come  up  and  join  in 
the  conversation." 

"And  the  same  with  his  brother?"  asks  Colonel  Fane, 
with  a  slight  smile. 

I  hang  my  head,  and  he  continues  : 

"  Do  you  know  Hector  Montagu  is  really  a  good  fellow  at 
heart?  it  is  only  his  look  and  manner  that  are  against  him 
and  that  really  belie  him.     He  is  worth  a  dozen  of  Charlie." 

My  heart  gives  an  indignant  throb. 

"  I  dare  say,"  I  answer,  coldly.    "  I  know  so  little  of  either." 

There  is  a  moment's  pause,  and  then  Colonel  Fane  says,  a 
little  nervously, — 

"  I  am  going  to  say  something  to  you  that  I  know  you 
won't  thank  me  for.  Charlie  Montagu  is  fascinating,  and 
women  are  very  apt  to  fall  in  love  with  him.  I  think  him 
a  very  nice  fellow ;  he  has  a  charming  manner,  in  spite  of 
that  affectation  of  languor  and  effeminacy ;  but"  (looking 
keenly  at  me)  "  he  is  almost  the  last  man  I  should  like  to 
see  a  sister  of  mine  give  her  affections  to,  unless  she  had  a 
fortune." 

Before  I  can  make  any  answer,  he  has  left  me,  and  is  talk- 
ing to  Mrs.  Warrington.  He  is  right.  I  do  not  thank  him 
for  what  he  hiis  said, — all  the  more,  perhaps,  because  dimly, 
remotely  in  my  heart  I  know  he  is  right.  But  what  then  ? 
Captain  Montagu  is  not  likely  to  bestow  a  thought  on  me,  and 
I  (and  I  sigh),  I,  when  I  no  longer  see  him  shall  forget  him. 
"  I  icill  forget  him,"  I  say,  resolutely,  as  I  rise  to  go  to  my 
room.  Captain  Montagu,  seeing  my  movement,  moves  to  the 
door  to  open  it  for  me.     I  intend  to  pass  through  without 


DIANA'S  STORY.  99 

even  looking  at  him,  but  he  lingers  a  moment  before  turning 
the  handle,  and  says,  in  his  most  caressing  tone, — 

"  Don't  be  angry  with  me."  I  look  up,  irresistibly  fas- 
cinated, and  smile.  Woe  is  me!  that  look  scatters  to  the 
wind  all  the  resolves  Colonel  Fane's  words  have  sown  in  my 
bosom.  Light  is  my  heart  and  swift  my  feet  as  I  ascend  the 
stairs  to  my  room,  where  I  fling  myself  into  a  low  chair, 
smiling  happy  smiles  at  the  bare  recollection  of  his  look  and 
words.  Oh,  women  who  have  grown  old !  who  have  lived 
and  loved  and  suffered !  do  you,  I  wonder,  lose  all  memory  of 
that  ardent  spring-time  when  a  look,  a  voice,  could  translate 
you  into  a  seventh  heaven  ?  I  am  still  dreaming  when,  after 
a  vigorous  rap.  Curly  puts  his  head  in. 

"  Oh,  Di !"  he  says,  enthusiastically,  "  isn't  it  awfully  jolly 
being  here  ?  I  never  enjoyed  myself  so  much  in  my  life  be- 
fore.    I  wish  it  could  last  forever  :  don't  you  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  I  should  mind,"  I  return,  "  if  we  had  papa 
and  Gay  and  all  the  animals  here.  Poor  papa !  how  dull  he 
must  be  without  us  !" 

"  Yes,  the  Dad,  of  course.  But  I  say,  Di,"  (regretfully), 
"  isn't  it  an  awful  bore  being  poor  ?  Only  fancy  if  we  could 
have  swell  parties  and  ask  everybody  to  our  place  and  put 
'em  up  and  entertain  them  in  this  sort  of  way,  wouldn't  it  be 
fine?" 

"  Yes,"  I  respond,  heartily,  "  it  would.  But  you  know, 
dear  boy,"  I  add,  with  a  qualm  of  conscience,  "  it's  no  use  re- 
pining about  what  can't  be  helped  ;  and  we  have  a  great  deal 
to  be  thankful  for.  And  after  all,"  I  continue,  thinking  of 
Mrs.  Warrington's  guests  in  general  and  one  in  particular, 
"  these  people  who  are  accustomed  to  so  much  society  don't 
seem  very  contented,  and  things  don't  amuse  them  like  they 
do  you  and  me." 

"Bosh!"  retorts  Curly:  "that's  only  because  it's  the 
fashion   for   people    to   sgem   bored  with   everything.     You 


100  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

should  have  seen  Lady  Gwyn  to-day — why,  she  was  as  keen 
and  pleased  as  I  was." 

"  Oh,"  I  remark,  dryly,  "  it  has  got  to  '  Lady  Gwyn'  and 
'  dear  boy'  now,  has  it  ?"     Whereat  Curly  blushes  furiously. 

"Well,"  he  says,  defiantly,  "you  seem  to  be  amusing  your- 
self too :  you  walked  off  very  coolly  with  Captain  Montagu 
after  lunch  to-day." 

It  is  my  turn  to  blush  now. 

"  If  I  had  not  gone  with  him,  I  should  have  had  the 
pleasure  of  walking  home  alone." 

"  He's  an  awfully  nice  fellow,  but  Lady  Gwyncth  says  you 
are  only  wasting  your  time  with  him  ;  he's  a  detrimental,  and, 
besides,  he  wants  a  woman  with  money.  She  said  I  was  to 
be  sure  and  not  let  you  fall  in  love  with  him,  which  she  could 
sec  you  were  beginning  to." 

I  am  too  wroth  for  speech.  I  cross  the  room  and  adjust 
something  on  the  toilet-table,  and  Curly,  unaware  of  my  feel- 
ings, continues  his  oration. 

"  By  jingo,  Di !  I  wish  you  could  catch  the  other  one  I  he 
isn't  half  a  bad  fellow,  though  he  don't  look  ^  nice  as  Charlie. 
He  was  awfully  civil  to  me  to-day,  and  said  something  about 
his  mother  going  over  to  call  on  you  when  you  get  back.  I 
say,  only  fancy  you  being  My  Lady  with  twelve  thousand  a 
year !" 

I  am  still  contending  with  my  indignation,  and  Curly  rattles 
on : 

"  It's  awful  hard  lines :  if  a  fellow  hasn't  got  money  he  has 
to  work  for  or  wait  for  it,  and  here  a  girl  has  only  to  be  pretty 
and  liked,  and  plump  she  drops  into  any  quantity  of  thousands 
a  year." 

"  Oh  I"  I  say,  with  some  bitterness;  "  then  you  only  look 
upon  your  sister  as  a  marketable  object,  and  don't  think  her 
inclinations  are  to  be  consulted." 

"  Oh,  that's  all  stuff.     Lady  Gwyneth  says " 


DIANA'S  STORY.  101 

"  Now,  Curly,"  I  cry,  witliiu  an  ace  of  losing  my  temper, 
"please  not  to  tell  me  any  more  of  Lady  Gwyn's  delightful 
theories.  Her  practice  is  quite  enough  warning  for  me.  And 
as  for  Rector  Montagu"  (raising  my  voice),  "  I  would  not 
have  him  if  he  had  twenty-four  or  forty-eight  thousand  a  year, 
or — or  double  that  sum,"  I  say,  not  being,  as  I  have  before 
hinted,  very  good  at  arithmetic,  and  unable  at  a  moment's 
notice  to  calculate  what  double  forty-eight  amounts  to.  "  Be- 
sides" (calming  down),  "  it  is  about  as  likely  he  will  ask  me 
as  that"  (I  pause,  as  usual,  for  a  simile) 

"  As  that  plum-puddings  will  grow  on  a  gooseberry-bush," 
says  Curly,  kindly  coming  to  njy  rescue.  "  But  a  truce  to 
marrying  and  giving  in  marriage,"  he  continues,  declamatorily. 
*'  Know,  0  Diana,  that  the  festivities  of  the  evening  are  to 
comprise  a  dance,  and  that " 

"  A  dance  !"  I  cry,  rapturously,  as  the  thought  of  dancing 
with  Mm  (he  surely  will  ask  me)  flashes  across  my  brain. 
"  Oh,  Curly !" 

"  Quite  true,  0  goddess  !  Lady  Gwyneth's  doing :  perhaps 
for  once"  (with  slight  sarcasm)  "  she  will  have  done  what 
seemeth  good  in  your  eyes." 

"It  seemeth  very  good,"  I  answer,  laughing,  and  shutting 
the  door  upon  him  previous  to  commencing  my  toilette. 
Never  before  have  I  been  so  anxious  about  my  personal  ap- 
pearance, never  so  diffident.  How  shall  I  look  my  best  ?  A 
sudden  inspiration  comes -to  me  :  I  will  wear  white,  spotless 
white,  all  white,  unrelieved  by  the  smallest  dash  of  color. 
When  I  am  thus  equipped,  I  present  myself  to  the  eyes  of 
my  brother,  who  is  in  the  agonies  of  parting  his  hair  down 
the  middle.  He  sees  my  reflection  in  the  glass,  and  turns 
sharply  round. 

"  I  say  P'  he  exclaims,  as  he  contemplates  me  with  deliber- 
ation, "  you've  done  it  this  time  !  By  jingo  !  you  only  want 
the  parson  and  the  right  man,  and  a  what-you-may-call-it  over 

9* 


102  FOR   A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

your  head,  a  veil,  and  you  might  be  married  off  the  reel.  I 
say,  Di"  (coming  nearer,  while  his  face  widens  into  a  smile 
of  satisfaction),  "  you'll  take  the  shine  out  of  some  of  'em 
to-night." 

His  words  are  homely,  but  a  compliment  turned  by  Lord 
Chesterfield  and  delivered  by  Sir  Charles  Grandison  would 
give  me  less  pleasure.  One  may  always  rely  on  the  sincerity 
at  least  of  a  brother's  compliment. 

Mr.  Montagu  takes  me  in  to  dinner.  To-night  two  daugh- 
ters of  a  neighboring  baronet  are  dining, — pretty,  stylish- 
looking  girls.  Captain  Montagu  takes  one  of  them,  Colonel 
Fane  the  other.  My  neighbor  does  his  best  to  be  agreeable 
to  me :  he  has  dropped  his  sarcastic  tone,  and  tries  to  draw 
me  out  about  my  home  life ;  but,  though  I  could  gossip  so 
volubly  about  it  to  Colonel  Fane,  the  confidences  Mr.  Mon- 
tagu invites  will  not  flow,  but  are  strangled  into  monosyllabic 
replies  to  his  questions.  He  might  listen  with  a  polite,  even 
kind,  show  of  interest,  but  somehow  I  do  not  feel  that  he 
would  care  to  hear  the  insignificant  details  of  our  humdrum 
life,  would  not  care  to  know  about  the  accomplishments  and 
abilities  of  my  four-footed  friends,  nor  the  vicissitudes  of  their 
lives,  nor  the  homely  sayings  and  doings  of  Gay.  Least  of 
all  do  I  feel  inclined  to  talk  to  him  about  papa.  In  his  pres- 
ence I  seem  weighed  down  by  a  crushing  sense  of  inferiority : 
nothing  surprises  me  more  than  that  he  should  seek  my  society 
or  care  to  talk  to  me :  to  save  my  life  I  don't  think  I  could 
originate  a  remark. 

There  has  been  a  pause  of  a  few  minutes,  when  he  turns 
rather  suddenly  towards  me,  and  says,  in  a  low  voice, — 

"  What  is  there  in  me  that  repels  you  so  intensely  ?" 

Taken  thus  at  unawares,  I  am  covered  with  confusion,  and 
have  not  the  presence  of  mind  to  utter  even  a  faint  denega- 
tion.     He  hardly  waits  for  it,  but  goes  on : 
^     "  I  admire  that  exceeding  honesty  and  truthfulness  in  you 


DIANA'S  STORY.  103 

that  at  this  very  moment  forbids  you  to  utter  a  civil  folse- 
hood,  as  ninety-nine  out  of  a  hundred  of  your  sex  would  do. 
I  am  afraid  I  am  rather  a  disagreeable  sort  of  fellow,  at  least 
I  seem  so ;  but  if  I  only  knew  how  to  conquer  that  sort  of — 
of  repugnance  (but  I  hope  that  is  too  harsh  a  name)  I  inspire 
in  you,  believe  me  I  would  make  a  very  great  effort." 

I  am  quite  touched  by  his  tone.  Is  it  possible  that  so 
insignificant  a  person  as  myself  can  have  given  pain  to  this 
apparently  hard,  callous  man  of  the  world  ? 

"  Indeed "  I  begin,  hastily. 

"  You  need  not  attempt  a  disclaimer,"  he  says,  gently.  "  I 
watched  you  all  through  dinner  last  night,  when  Fane  sat 
next  you  :  you  were  bright  and  laughing  the  whole  time ;  he 
did  not  do  all  the  talking,  as  I  am  doing  to-night.  If  you 
could  only  see  the  difference  in  your  face, — yesterday  so  gay 
and  animated,  to-night"  (with  a  forced  smile)  "  so  dull  and 
dejected." 

I  feel  a  little  indignant  at  this  open  criticism. 

"  If  you  like  the  truth,  then,"  I  say,  bridling  up,  "  I  am 
afraid  of  you.  I  have  never  been  in  society,  I  have  been 
shut  up  in  the  country  all  my  life :  if  I  talked  to  you  about 
my  dogs  and  cats,  my  pigs  and  chickens,  how  you  would  sneer 
at  me !  If  I  say  nothing,  you  can  at  the  most  think  me 
stupid." 

He  laughs,  quite  a  genial  laugh. 

"  At  all  events,  I  have  roused  you  into  saying  something," 
ho  says ;  then,  lowering  his  voice,  "  and  if  you  think  I  do  not 
take  an  interest  in  homely  country  pursuits,  that  is  because 
my  face  is  always,  unlike  yours,  expressing  what  I  do  not 
think.  Now,  there  is  my  brother,"  he  goes  on,  bitterly:  "the 
moment  he  enters  a  room,  every  one  says,  '  What  a  charm- 
ing fellow  !'  just  because  he  had  the  luck  to  be  born  with  a 
pleasing  expression,  and  I  always  iiet  credit  for  exactly  the 
reverse.    It's  all  humbua;  the  face  being  an  index  to  the  mind. 


104  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

I  have  the  bad  hick  to  take  after  my  father, — only  in  feature, 
tliou<i;h,  I  trust,"  he  adds,  devoutly,  "  and  Charlie  resembles 
my  mother's  family." 

Sir  Hector  cannot  be  a  very  nice  old  gentleman,  I  reflect, 
if  both  his  sons  speak  so  undutifully  of  him. 

"  I  should  like  you  to  know  my  mother,"  continues  Mr. 
Montagu,  warmly.  "  You  would  love  her,  and  she  you,  I 
know, — she  is  so  sweet  and  good  and  gentle,  and,  poor  soul ! 
she  leads  such  a  life  with  my  father.  By  Heaven !"  (with 
suppressed  fire),  "  if  I  thought  I  should  ever  treat  a  woman 
like  that,  I  think  I  would  hang  myself  before  I  got  the 
chance." 

"  Or  not  marry  at  all,"  I  suggest,  slyly, 

"  Ah !"  he  replies,  gloomily,  "  I  see  you  think  a  woman 
wouldn't  have  much  of  a  time  with  me.  But  you  are  wrong," 
he  goes  on,  bending  towards  me,  and  speaking  eagerly  :  "  if  a 
woman  loved  me  you  don't  know  how  good  I  would  be  to  her, 
— you  don't  know " 

I  am  destined  not  to  know,  for  at  this  moment  the  ladies 
rise  to  retire.  Part  of  the  ball-room  has  been  screened  off 
for  our  Tcrpsichorean  rites  to-night,  and  a  priestess,  in  the 
shape  of  a  lady  who  plays  the  piano,  has  been  convened  from 
the  neighboring  town.  I  am  tremulous  with  excitement:  will 
he  ask  me?  No,  Mrs.  Huntingdon  is  on  his  arm,  and  I  am 
fuin  to  accept  Sir  George  (I  don't  yet  know  his  surname),  who 
invites  me.  My  envious  eyes  scan  the  splendid  pair  as  they 
glide  down  the  room.  My  partner  is  evidently  as  ill  pleased 
to  watch  them  as  I  am  ;  we  do  not  say  very  much  to  each 
other.  I  walk  through  a  quadrille  with  Colonel  Fane.  Then 
comes  another  waltz.  My  heart  beats  faster  than  ever :  will 
he  ask  me  now  ?  No  I  he  is  inviting  the  girl  he  took  in  to 
dinner,  and  his  brother  is  my  partner.  The  waltz  is  to  be 
followed  by  a  galop.  Mrs.  Warrington  brings  up  Lord  Eex- 
borough  and  introduces  him  to  me,  and  I  am  obliged  to  accept 


DIANA'S  STORY.  105 

his  invitation  to  dance.  No  sooner  have  I  done  so  than  Cap- 
tain Montagu  approaches. 

"  Miss  Carew,  I  have  been  impatiently  awaiting  this  bliss- 
ful opportunity  :  this  dance  must  be  ours." 

"  Too  late,  my  boy  !"  says  my  lord,  laying  a  heavy  hand  on 
the  other's  shoulder.  "  Gad,  Charlie !"  (with  his  coarse 
laugh),  "  it  isn't  often  one  gets  a  pull  over  you." 

"  Don't  have  anything  to  do  with  him.  Miss  Carew !"  laughs 

the  other,  gayly  linking  his  arm  in  Lord  Rexborough's.     In 

my  prejudiced  eyes  they  look  like  the  Archangel  Michael  and 

Apollyon,  only  that  I  never  saw  the  two  depicted  on  such 

friendly  terms.     "  He's  a  mighty  hunter,  and  all  that  sort  of 

thing,— 

" '  A  terror  to  the  Umbrian,  a  terror  to  the  Gaul/ 

but  he  isn't  a  bit  of  good  at  dancing.  He'll  probably  tear 
that  pretty  gown  of  yours  to  ribbons,  tread  on  your  toes  and 
lame  you  for  life,  or  bring  you  to  unutterable  grief  of  some 
kind  or  other." 

"  He  only  wants  to  make  you  appreciate  me  all  the  more 
when  you  see  what  I  can  do,"  says  my  lord,  with  a  look  which, 
if  intended  to  fascinate  me,  has  precisely  the  opposite  effect. 
"  You  had  better  go  and  do  your  duty  by  the  lovely  H.,  Mas- 
ter Charlie.     I  see  her  looking  daggers  this  way." 

I  cast  an  appealing  glance  at  Captain  Montagu :  not  only 
do  I  want  to  dance  with  him,  but  I  most  emphatically  do  not 
want  to  dance  with  the  other. 

He  responds-  to  my  look,  and,  drawing  Lord  Rexborough  a 
little  aside,  whispers  something  to  him  which  escapes  my  ear. 
Not  so  the  answer.   , 

"  Exception  proves  the  rule.  I  like  the  look  of  this  filly, 
clean-limbed  and  thorough-bred.  You  can  have  the  next 
turn." 

In  my  disgust,  I  feel  inclined  to  turn  and  flee,  but  some- 

E* 


106  J^OR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

thing  stronger  chains  mc  to  my  seat  and  makes  me  try  to  look 
as  if  I  had  not  heard. 

"  This  fellow  is  quite  impracticable,"  says  Captain  Montagu, 
turning  to  me,  "  and  perhaps"  (bending  down  and  smiling) 
"  I  ought  to  give  him  a  chance.  You  know  what  I  told  you 
this  afternoon." 

"  Come,  get  out,  Charlie  !"  observes  my  lord,  with  his  charm 
ing,  polished  manner :  "  you  always  were  a  most  infernal 
poacher,  and  Miss  Carew  is  mine,  for  the  next  fifteen  minutes 
at  all  events." 

"  Keep  the  next  waltz  for  me,"  whispers  Captain  Montagu, 
going. 

"Don't  you  waste  your  time  on  him!"  says  my  partner, 
facetiously :  "  he's  no  good  to  girls  on  their  promotion.  Wait 
till  you've  got  a  husband  with  money,  and  then  you  can  take 
a  turn  at  Charlie,  like  all  the  other  pretty  married  women." 

I  am  glad  for  once  that  my  face  is  expressive.  I  do  not 
attempt  this  time  to  control  the  disgust  and  disapprobation  his 
remark  calls  up  on  it.  Lord  Rexborough  evidently  sees  and 
enjoys  it. 

"  Haw  haw!"  he  laughs.  "  T  suppose  I've  put  my  foot  in 
it.  Fact  is,  I  hardly  ever  talk  to  a  girl,  and  hang  me  if  I 
know  what  to  say  to  them  !" 

Mercifully,  the  music  begins.  I  say  mercifully ;  but  whether 
of  the  two  is  less  disgusting — to  be  stared  at  by  his  bold  eyes 
and  talked  to  in  a  style  such  as  I  should  imagine  a  com- 
mercial traveler  might  adopt  to  a  bar-maid,  or  to  be  encircled 
by  his  odious  arm  with  his  hot  breath  streaming  on  my  neck, 
I  am  somewhat  at  a  loss  to  pronounce.  He  does  not  dance 
badly,  and  he  is  pleased  to  compliment  me,  in  his  delicate, 
subtle  manner,  on  my  performance. 

"  By  George  !  we  must  have  another !"  he  says,  when  it  is 
over.  "  I  know  it's  no  use  asking  for  Charlie's  waltz,  eh  ?" 
(looking  down  in  my  face  with  his  most  satanic  look).    "  I 


DIANA'S  STORY.  107 

saw  liow  you  frowned  when  I  insisted  on  my  rights,  by  George 
I  did,  but  I  like  to  see  a  pretty  woman  frown — ^hanged  if  I 
don't !  I  like  a  horse  and  a  woman  with  a  spirit :  shows  they've 
got  go  in  'em.     Let's  take  a  turn  in  the  conservatory,  eh  ?" 

"  I  had  rather  not,  thank  you,"  I  reply,  stiiBy. 

"  Do  you  good,  a  little  fresh  air,"  he  rejoins.  "  I'll  bring 
you  back  in  time  for  Charlie."  And  he  continues  his  march 
towards  the  door,  with  my  hand  cramped  like  a  vice  between 
his  arm  and  side,  so  that  without  positively  stopping  and 
struggling  I  could  not  get  away  from  him.  That  would  be 
ignominious  :  so  I  yield,  solacing  my  indignant  heart  with  the 
thought  that  no  human  power  shall  make  me  dance  with  him 
again. 

"  Rattling  good  place  to  spoon !"  he  says,  when  we  have 
arrived  there.  "  Come  and  sit  down  !"  (pointing  to  a  lounge 
at  the  farther  end). 

"  No,  thank  you,"  I  answer,  curtly. 

"  Nonsense !  you  can't  catch  cold  :  hot- water  pipes  all 
round.     I'll  send  for  a  shawl,  if  you  like.     I  want  to  talk  to 

you." 

"  I  can  talk  quite  as  well  standing,"  I  say,  coldly. 

"  No,  you  can't, — it's  so  unsociable ;  and  I'm  awfully  tired, 
— been  traveling  all  day." 

Without  being  downright  rude  and  running  the  risk  of 
offending  Mrs.  Warrington  through  her  guest,  I  cannot  well 
refuse :  so  reluctantly  I  seat  myself,  and  he  brings  down  his 
ponderous  frame  so  close  to  me  that  he  sits  half  on  my  dress. 
He  evidently  enjoys  my  embarrassment,  and  leans  towards  me 
so  near  that  I  feel  his  breath  upon  my  face. 

"  Now,"  he  says,  gloating  upon  me  with  his  hateful  dark 
eyes,  "  I  am  going  to  give  you  a  little  advice  about  Charlie 
Montagu." 

"  I  think  you  are  rather  premature,"  I  remark,  flashing  an 
indignant  look  upon  him. 


108  FOR   A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"  Not  a  bit,"  lie  answers,  composedly.  "  I'm  uncommon 
quick  at  jumping  at  conclusions.  I  saw  tlie  young  gentleman 
open  the  door  for  you  just  after  I  came,  and  how  you  looked 
up  at  him.  I  watched  you  when  the  dancing  began,  and  he 
a.sked  Mrs.  Huntingdon,  and  then  the  other,  and " 

But,  before  he  can  proceed  any  further,  I  have  wrenched 
my  skirts  from  him  and  fled.  In  my  hot  haste  I  run  into  the 
arms  of  some  one :  it  is  Captain  Montagu. 

"  Why,  INIiss  Carew  !"  he  utters  in  his  laughing  voice ; 
"  where  arc  you  rushing  to  like  a  small  whirlwind?  Do  you 
know  you  all  but  knocked  me  down  ?"  Then,  as  he  sees  my 
agitation,  he  draws  my  hand  gently  through  his  arm. 

I  hear  a  heavy  footstep  in  the  distance. 

"Oh,  come  away,"  I  whisper,  excitedly;  ^'■please  come 
away." 

He  complies  with  my  request,  and  takes  me  across  the  hall 
into  Mr.  Warrington's  room,  which  is  empty  and  lighted  only 
by  a  single  lamp.  Without  a  word  he  leads  me  gently  to  a 
sofa.  I  am  ashamed  to  chronicle  such  incredible  foolishness, 
but  I  actually  begin  to  cry. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  says  Captain  Montagu,  soothingly  stroking 
my  hand  as  one  might  a  child's  in  trouble.  "  What  has  that 
brute  Rexborough  been  doing  or  saying  to  you  ?" 

"  Nothing,"  I  say,  making  a  great  effort  to  recover  myself. 

"  But  you  would  not  be  so  distressed  if  it  were  nothing ; 
you  would  not  have  been  flying  away  as  I  found  you.  Tell 
me"  (caressingly),  "  and  I  will  go  to  him  and " 

"  Not  for  the  world !"  I  cry,  apprehensively.  "  Do  not, 
please  do  not  mention  my  name  to  him  !"  I  repeat,  in  an  agony 
lest  the  wretch  should  tell  him  what  was  the  source  of  his 
off"ense ;  "  but  I  dislike  him,  I  cannot  bear  him,  I  hope  he 
will  never  speak  to  me  again." 

"  He  shall  not,"  says  Captain  Montagu,  very  softly ;  and 
my  mourning  is  turned  into  joy  as  I  look  up  with  courage 


DIANA'S  STORY.  109 

regained,  and  see  his  handsome  face  stooped  tenderly  towards 
me.  He  still  holds  my  hand,  and  blushingly  I  re-take  pos- 
session of  it,  saying, — 

"  The  waltz  will  be  nearly  over." 

"  Then  you  will  give  me  the  next  as  well,  will  not  you  ?" 
he  says,  caressingly. 

When,  an  hour  later,  the  party  breaks  up,  I  chronicle  this 
evening  as  the  happiest  of  my  life.  I  have  torgotten  that 
such  a  person  as  Lord  Rexborough  exists,  until  Curly,  coming 
in,  says,— 

"  What  a  splendid  fellow  Lord  Rexborough  isl" 

"  Splendid  1"  I  echo,  with  wide-open  eyes. 

"  He  has  been  telling  us  all  about  his  tiger-hunts  ;  and  he 
was  so  awfully  kind  to  me,  and  has  asked  me  to  go  and 
breakfast  with  him  at  Windsor  some  day." 

I  sigh,  but  say  nothing.  Curly  with  such  friends  as  Lady 
Gwyneth  and  Lord  Rexborough  ! 

"  What  do  you  look  so  glum  for,  Di  ?" 

"  Nothing,  dear  boy,"  I  answer,  not  wanting  to  spoil  his 
pleasure  by  moralizing.     "  I  am  sleepy.     Good-night." 

We  kiss  and  part,  and  I  fall  to  wondering  whether  is 
better,  our  own  homely  healthy  life,  or  that  world's  life  into 
which  we  are  just  getting  initiated. 


10 


110  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 


CHAPTER    XL 


NOT   TOLD   BY   DIANA. 


Lord  Rexborough  is  rather  astonished  at  Diana's  flight. 

"  What  the  deuce  did  I  say  to  make  her  start  off  like  that  ?" 
he  wonders  to  himself.  "  I  only  meant  to  give  her  a  friendly 
word  of  caution  because  she  seemed  a  nice  fresh  innocent  little 
thing,  and  it's  no  more  use  her  thinking  of  Charlie  than  the 
Emperor  of  China,  And  then  she  cuts  up  rough  and  flies 
off  like  a  young  deer.  Nothing  so  silly  as  trying  to  do  any 
one  a  good  turn,  particularly  a  woman  when  she's  sweet  on  a 
man!  Well,  I've  done  with  her!"  And  Lord  Rexborough 
rises  and  saunters  along  the  conservatory  into  the  hall.  Lady 
Gwyneth  is  crossing  it,  alone.  They  both  pause :  a  pink  flush 
crosses  her  face,  he  looks  a  shade  embarrassed. 

"  Will  you  come  into  the  conservatory  ?"  he  asks  her,  in  a 
low  voice. 

She  shakes  her  head. 

"  No,  not  there  :  in  the  billiard-room, — it  would  seem  more 
natural  to  find  me  there."  And  she  forces  a  laugh  that  is 
hardly  mirthful. 

He  follows  her  down  the  corridor  to  the  billiard- room, 
which  is,  as  they  probably  expect  to  find  it,  untenanted. 
Lady  Gwyneth  takes  up  a  cue  and  begins  to  knock  the  balls 
about.  Curiously  enough,  she,  who  is  an  an  exceptionally 
good  player,  misses  more  than  once.  After  about  a  minute 
she  desists,  and  faces  him,  leaning  on  her  cue.  His  eyes  are 
fixed  upon  her,  have  been,  as  she  knows,  ever  since  they 
entered  the  room.  A  curious  contrast,  these  two, — she  so 
mignonne,  white-faced,  fair-haired,  he  so  dark  and  big. 


NOT  TOLD  BY  DIANA.  Ill 

"Well?"  she  says,  at  last;  but  the  inflexion  of  her  voice 
is  softer  than  it  is  wont  to  be,  and  he,  looking  at  her  with  a 
searching  glance,  asks, — 

"Is  it  well?" 

She  utters  a  little  scornful  laugh. 

"  Of  course  it  is  well.  Am  I  not  rich  ?  and  when  you  saw 
me  last  I  was  poor,  poor  as  a  church  mouse.  Am  I  not  heart- 
whole?  and  when  you  saw  me  last"  (her  voice  trembling  a 
little)  "  I  was  heart-broken.  I  shall  never  break  my  heart 
for  love  again :  diamonds,  not  willows,  for  me.  And  you" 
(turning  upon  him),  "  I've  never  had  an  opportunity  of  con- 
gratulating you  since  that  tremendous  piece  of  good  luck 
befell  you  a  year  ago.  Odd,  our  happening  to  meet  here !  I 
suppose  Mrs.  Warrington  never  heard  of  that  little  episode  in 
the  wilds  of  Ireland.  What  a  good  thing  for  you  your  uncle 
and  cousin  did  not  die  a  fortnight  sooner !  I  might  have  been 
Lady  Rexborough  now,  or"  (looking  keenly  at  him)  "  perhaps 
your  love  would  not  have  survived  your  sudden  honors." 

"  Gwyneth!"  he  says,  in  a  low  tone  of  reproach.  He  does 
not  look  like  the  same  man  for  whom  willful  Miss  Diana 
took  such  a  violent  disgust ;  there  is  nothing  coarse  or  harsh 
about  him  now :  the  dark  eyes  that  are  looking  down  upon 
Lady  Gwyneth 's  quivering,  excited  face  are  very  sad  and  soft. 
As  they  stand  there  together,  their  thoughts  go  back  to  a 
time,  not  so  very  long  ago, — something  under  two  years, — 
when  both  their  fates  had  seemed  as  different  from  what  they 
are  as  the  mind  could  well  conceive.  She  was  a  penniless, 
free-hearted,  frank-mannered  hoyden,  the  daughter  of  an 
Irish  peer,  and  he  was  Jack  Blount,  with  no  expectations, 
not  particularly  celebrated  for  morals  or  manners,  "  a  bear," 
most  women  pronounced,  "  not  a  bad  fellow,"  men  said,  "and 
a  sportsman  to  the  backbone."  The  two  met  and  fell  in  love. 
It  happened  on  this  wise : 

The  Earl  of  Mallow,  Lady  Gwyneth' s  father,  was  as  poor 


112  FOR  A   WOMA^"S  SAKE. 

as  a  peer  well  could  be.  He  had,  what  many  poor  men  have, 
a  large  family.  The  sons  went  into  the  army,  and  the  daugh- 
tei-s  ran  wild  at  home.  There  was  no  going  up  to  London  for 
the  season,  important  as  it  was  that  the  girls  should  make 
good  matches.  Lady  Gwyneth,  the  only  one  old  enough,  was 
presented  in  Dublin,  and  now  and  then  got  invited  to  London 
for  a  few  weeks,  to  stay  with  friends.  One  May  her  brother 
brought  home  Jack  Blount  for  salmon-fishing  (Lord  Mallow 
had  some  of  the  best  fishing  on  the  Blackwater),  and  Jack 
was  a  noted  angler.     The  invitation  was  given  in  this  way: 

"  If  you  like  fishing,  and  don't  mind  roughing  it,  come 
down  home  with  me.  I  can  promise  you  any  quantity  of 
salmon  ;  and  you  won't  be  bothered  with  women.  My  sisters 
are  more  like  boys  than  girls ;  in  fiict,  you'd  be  puzzled  to 
know  which  they  were.  They  can  ride,  shoot,  and  fish  as 
well  as  any  of  us  boys." 

Colonel  Blount  rather  liked  the  idea.  He  did  not  care  for 
ladies,  he  did  not  believe  in  them,  and  thought  it  a  stupid 
farce  to  have  to  treat  them  as  if  he  did.  Poor  Jack's  expe 
rience  of  women  had  been  an  unfortunate  one.  His  own 
mother  had  been  the  subject  of  one  of  the  most  notorious 
scandals  of  the  day,  and  from  his  father,  whom  he  adored,  he 
never  heard  anything  but  curses  and  invectives  against  the 
sex.  He  was  brought  up  religiously  to  love  sport  and  to  dis- 
tmst  women,  to  look  upon  them  as  enemies,  to  be  got  the  best 
of  if  possible,  and  to  give  no  quarter  to  when  they  fell  into 
his  hands.  So  Jack  had  always  been  used  to  steer  clear  of 
ladies.  But  when  he  came  to  Ireland  and  saw  this  intrepid 
little  maiden,  who  would  have  alarmed  most  men,  he  had  a 
new  sensation.  A  fine  lady,  who  wanted  to  be  waited  upon 
and  made  love  to,  if  she  had  the  loveliest  face  in  the  world, 
would  have  made  no  impression  upon  him,  steeled  as  he  was 
against  these  subtle  wiles ;  but  a  girl  who  could  bear  any 
amount  of  hardship  and  fatigue,  who  could  throw  a  fly  and 


NOT  TOLD   BY  DIANA.  113 

play  a  twenty-pound  salmon  as  well  as  himself,  who  would 
ride  any  horse  they  put  her  on,  and  not  funk  a  big  jump  in 
cold  blood, — that  wasa  very  different  specimen  of  womanhood 
from  any  it  had  been  his  lot  to  encounter,  and  his  rough, 
rude,  but  withal  honest  heart  went  out  to  her  at  once.  And 
to  her  he  was  the  very  beau-ideal  of  what  a  man  should  be, 
— utterly  manly  and  fearless,  an  adept  at  every  sport.  She 
would  have  thought  a  polished,  courtly-mannered  man  a  fool ; 
but  Jack's  brusque  rough-and-ready  ways  just  suited  her. 
She  was  eminently  un-Desdemona  like,  but  that  fair  and 
weak-minded  damsel  never  listened  with  more  rapt  attention 
to  the  Moor  than  Lady  Gwyneth  to  Jack's  adventures  in 
flood  and  field, — some  of  them  thrilling  enough,  though  told 
with  due  modesty.  For  sport  had  filled  up  the  crevices  of 
Jack  Blount's  life,  much  as  love-making  does  other  men's : 
his  blood  had  been  stirred  quicker  by  danger  than  love ;  the 
conquest  of  a  lion  or  a  grizzly  had  filled  his  head  with  more 
passionate  delight  than  the  winning  of  thfe  fairest  of  women 
could  have  done  hitherto.  But  three  weeks  in  the  constant 
society  of  this  little  Amazon  had  given  him  fresh  thoughts 
about  womankind :  he  who  had  scofi"ed  with  many  a  bitter, 
unseemly  joke  at  marriage  woke  up  one  morning  and  found 
himself  filled  with  one  great  desire, — to  have  this  little  pale 
girl  for  company  during  the  rest  of  his  pilgrimage  through 
life.  And  before  nightfall,  as  they  wandered  home  together 
from  their  fishing  expedition,  lagging,  by  mutual  though  un- 
spoken consent,  behind  the  rest  of  the  party,  there,  in  the 
dim  wood,  the  trees  making  canopy  above  their  heads,  and 
the  dark  river  swirling  round  the  big  rocks  below,  he  told  his 
"  plain,  unvarnished  tale." 

There  was  not  much  romance  or  sentiment  about  them,  but 
their  hearts  were  none  the  less  honest  or  steadfast  of  purpose 
one  to  the  other  for  that.  And  so  they  gave  their  tryst,  and 
he  took  the  thick  gold  ring  from  his  strong  hand  and  gave  it 

10* 


114  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

to  licr  until  he  should  replace  it  by  another.  To  this  day 
Lady  Grwyucth  wears  it,  not  in  the  shape  in  which  he  gave  it, 
but  beaten  out  into  a  heart ;  and  she  wears  it  next  her  own. 

It  was  arranged  between  them  that  he  should  speak  to 
Lord  iMallow  next  day.  He  felt  diffident  about  it, — he  had 
so  little,  so  very  little,  to  offer  any  woman,  much  less  an  earl's 
daughter.  But  that  same  night,  when  all  the  household  had 
retired,  and  he  and  Lady  Gwyneth's  brother  smoked  their 
nocturnal  pipe  together,  he  heard  his  fate  in  this  wise.  There 
had  been  silence  for  some  minutes,  and  Lord  Vayn  had 
fidgeted  about  uneasily.  It  was  lost  upon  Jack :  he  was  fol- 
lowing the  smoke-wreaths  up  in  the  air  where  his  castles  were, 
little  thinking,  poor  fellow,  how  a  few  minutes  would  see 
them  toppling  down  into  ruined  fragments  at  his  feet. 

Lord  Vayn,  having  thought  over  one  or  two  modes  of 
attack,  and  not  liking  either,  ended  by  blurting  out  his  mind 
pell-mell  without  much  consideration  for  his  hearer's  feelings, 
only  anxious  to  get  his  own  share  of  the  unpleasant  business 
over. 

"  Look  here.  Jack,  old  fellow !  I've  got  something  deuced 
disagreeable  to  say  to  you.  I  may  be  right,  or  I  may  be 
wrong,  I  hope  to  Heaven  wrong.  I  dare  say  you  can  guess 
what  it's  about." 

"About  your  sister?"  asks  Jack,  a  strange  nervous  feeling 
creeping  over  him. 

"  You  know,  when  I  asked  you  here,"  proceeds  Lord  Vayn, 
rushing  at  his  subject  like  a  horse  at  a  fence  he  wants  to  be 
over,  "  I  thought  you  were  the  safest  fellow  in  the  world  with 
women :  I  thought  you  hated  them, — you  always  swore  you 
did.  And  my  sisters  are  not  soft,  spoony  sort  of  girls,  Grwyn- 
eth  least  of  all.  But  I  can't  help  seeing  that  she's  getting 
fond  of  you,  and,  as  your  marrying  her  is  out  of  the  question, 
it's  no  use  playing  the  fool  any  longer,  and  if  you're  a  gentle- 
man, as  I  take  you  to  be,  I  needn't  say  anything  more." 


NOT  TOLD  BY  DIANA.  115 

Jack's  heavy  brows  bend  together,  his  teeth  clinch.  For 
a  minute  or  more  he  makes  no  answer.  Then  he  says, 
huskily, — 

"  I  know  I  have  very  little  to  offer  a  girl, — nothing,  in- 
deed ;  and  what  you  say  about  my  hating  women  has  been 
true  enough  up  to  the  present  moment ;  but  I  swear,  if  you 
let  me  have  her,  neither  she  nor  any  of  you  shall  ever  repent 
it,  and  I  don't  think  she  is  a  girl  who  cares  much  for  money 
and  luxury." 

"  I  dare  say  you  think,"  returns  Lord  Vayn,  with  some 
heat,  "  that  because  we  are  poor,  as  you  see  we  are,  the  girls 
are  not  to  look  for  much  in  their  husbands;  but  you're  wrong. 
Because  they've  nothing  themselves  they've  got  to  marry  men 
who  have.  My  dear  Blount"  (in  a  quieter  voice),  "  it's  use- 
less your  thinking  about  it.  My  father  and  mother  would 
not  hear  of  it  for  an  instant :  they  are  furious  already,  and  I 
have  had  the  pleasant  task  delegated  to  me  of — of — well,  of 
giving  you  your  conge." 

Jack's  face  grows  dark  and  angry. 

"It  is  rather  late  in  the  day,"  he  says.  "You  should  have 
spoken  sooner." 

"Spoken  sooner  !"  retorts  the  other, angrily.  "Why, until 
three  days  ago  it  never  entered  our  brains  that  you  could — 
could " 

"  Presume  to  aspire  to  Lady  Grwyneth's  hand !"  finishes 
Jack,  grimly. 

"  Something  like  that,"  returns  Lord  Vayn.  "  Hang  it, 
Blount !  it's  not  a  very  pleasant  thing  to  have  to  say  to  a 
fellow,  but  you  must  know  that  though  you're  a  very  good 
fellow  in  some  ways,  and  a  sportsman,  you're  hardly  the  sort  of 
man  in  any  respect  that  one  would  care  to  give  one's^ daughter 
or  sister  to,  even  if  you  had  anything  to  keep  her  on." 

Jack  listens  in  silence  to  the  words  whose  bitter  truth  goes 
well  liome :  he  does  not  feel  any  anger  against  the  man  who 


116  .  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

speaks  them,  only  a  chill  pain  creeps  into  his  heart.  He 
begins  to  see  the  folly  of  which  he  has  been  guilty,  and  the 
thought  that  pains  him  most  is  that  she  will  suffer  for  it. 
Poor  little  girl !     He  heaves  a  bitter  sigh. 

"  Can't  I  do  anything  ?"  he  says,  almost  humbly.  "  If  I 
waited " 

"  My  good  fellow,"  retorts  the  other,  angrily,  "  you  are  a 
man  of  the  world.  You  know  that  if  you  waited  forever  it 
would  be  as  impossible  as  it  is  now.  And  I  am  commissioned 
by  my  father  and  mother  both,  to  say  that  under  no  circum- 
stances would  they  hear  of  you  as  a  husband  for  Gwyneth. 
Don't  make  my  task  any  harder  than  you  can  help." 

"  That  is  enough,"  says  poor  Jack.  "  You  need  say  no 
more.  I  will  pack  my  things  to-night,  and  to-morrow  you 
will  have  seen  the  last  of  me." 

So  saying,  he  goes,  leaving  Lord  Vayn  savage  with  himself 
for  his  own  roughness,  savage  with  his  sister  for  her  folly,  most 
savage  of  all  with  his  parents,  who  have  thrust  this  hateful 
office  upon  him  and  lost  him  a  friend.  Somehow  he  feels  that 
even  rough,  downright  Jack  Blount  would  have  acquitted  him- 
self more  tenderly  had  the  ungracious  task  been  his.  Jack 
goes  to  his  room,  and  begins  to  pack,  with  a  heavier  heart 
than  he  has  known  since  his  father  died.  Four  weeks  ago 
how  little  he  dreamed 

"  His  heart  would  ever  ache  or  break 
For  love's  sake," 

He  had  some  poor  consolation  in  feeling  that  he  had  but  to 
speak  the  word  and  she  would  go  to  him  anywhere  ;  she  was 
not  a  girl  to  be  daunted  by  parents'  vetoes ;  but  that  word  he 
did  not  mean  to  speak.  No !  now  it  was  put  before  him,  he 
saw  how'poor  and  untempting  was  the  fate  he  had  to  offer 
her ;  parting  from  her  friends  with  only  him  to  depend  upon 
(and  poor  Jack's  opinion  of  himself  was  the  very  humblest), 


NOT  TOLD  BY  DIANA.  117 

she  would  have  a  hard  time  of  it,  poor  little  girl !  he  told  him- 
self. One  thing  he  bitterly  regretted, — having  spoken  to  her : 
he  blamed  himself:  he  had  meant  to  speak  to  her  father  first, 
but  it  had  slipped  out  unawares. 

The  next  morning  Lord  and  Lady  Mallow  met  him  at  break- 
fast with  serene  faces,  as  though  unconscious  of  what  had 
passed  the  night  before.  They  made  no  allusion  to  his  de- 
parture, though  the  dog-cart  was  ordered  for  ten  o'clock. 
Lady  Gwyneth  was  not  present,  neither  was  Lord  Vayn. 
Breakfist  over,  the  two  other  girls  went  out.  Jack  brought 
his  courage  to  the  sticking-point. 

"  Lady  Mallow,"  he  said,  quietly,  "  will  you  allow  me  to 
wish  your  daughter  good-by  before  I  go?" 

Lady  Mallow  looked  at  her  husband. 

"  Better  not,"  he  uttered,  suavely. 

"  I  ask  it  as  a  great  favor,"  says  Jack,  huskily.  "  I  can 
see  her  in  your  presence,  if  you  wish  it  so." 

"  Under  those  circumstances,  I  think,  my  dear,"  remarks 
Lord  Mallow  to  his  wife,  "  we  need  not  object  to  grant  Col- 
onel Blount's  last  request.     Will  you  fetch  Grwyneth?" 

Lady  Mallow  goes  out,  and  returns,  after  a  short  absence, 
with  her  daughter. 

Lady  Grwyneth  is  pale,  heavy-eyed :  it  is  easy  to  see  she  too 
has  heard  her  fate.  Poor  Jack's  honest  heart  goes  out  to  her : 
something  in  his  throat  chokes  him,  a  mist  gathers  before  his 
eyes. 

He  goes  up  to  her  and  takes  her  hand  in  his. 

"  Good-by  !"  he  says,  huskily.  "  I  was  wrong  in  speaking 
to  you  without  Lord  Mallow's  consent.  I  forgot  I  was  poor 
and  had  no  right  to  think  of  you,  but  I  know  I  could  have 
made  you  happy  if  they  would  have  let  me." 

"  Colonel  Blount !"  interrupts  Lady  Mallow. 

"  Good-by,"  he  says,  once  more,  taking  both  her  hands 
in  his ;  and,  looking  up  through  a  mist  of  tears,  she  sees  his 


118  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

stalwart  form  towering  above  her,  meets  his  dark,  sad,  honest 
eyes,  and  then  he  is  gone.  Mechanically  she  stands  until  she 
hears  the  dog-cart  drive  away,  and  then  she  goes  away  silently 
to  her  room.  If  he  had  only  said  to  her,  "  Come  to  me,  and 
you  and  I  will  flice  the  world  together,"  she  would  have  gone 
to  him,  would  have  defied  parents,  poverty,  anything,  every- 
thing, for  his  sake  ;  but  he  had  acquiesced ;  he  had  bidden 
her  good-by  :  what  was  there  left  for  her  to  do  ?  So,  silently, 
with  all  the  more  in  her  heart  because  she  bore  a  brave  face, 
she  went  away  to  her  own  room  and  fought  it  out  alone.  Some- 
how she  did  not  believe  he  would  give  her  up  tamely.  She 
buoyed  herself  up  with  the  hope  that  she  would  hear  from 
him.  She  did  not  know  that  the  strongest  argument  he  used 
against  the  impulse  to  see  or  write  to  her  was  herself.  He  was 
giving  her  up  for  her  own  sake,  and  that  lent  him  courage. 

But  in  time  she  gave  up  hope,  and  when  some  months 
afterwards  she  was  in  London,  and  Mr.  Desborough  proposed 
to  her,  she  accepted  him.  She  did  it  with  characteristic 
frankness. 

"  I  do  not  care  for  you,"  she  said.  "  I  will  marry  you  if 
you  like,  but  I  shall  expect  to  have  everything  my  own  way, 
and  to  do  just  as  I  like." 

Mr.  Desborough,  who  was  not  in  love  with  her  either,  but 
who  was  particularly  anxious  to  have  a  lady  of  title  for  his 
wife,  assented  with  the  best  grace  he  might. 

"  I  hope  time "  he  murmured. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  brusquely,  "  time  will  do  nothing  more 
for  you ;  but  if  you  like  to  marry  me  without  expecting  any- 
thing of  me,  it  makes  very  little  difference  to  me." 

So  Mr.  Desborou;j,h  Inanied  her,  and,  by  one  of  the  strange 
ironies  in  which  fate  delights,  on  the  very  day  that  she  became 
Ills  wife,  Lord  Rexborough  and  his  son  were  upset  from  a  boat 
and  drowned,  and  Jack  Blount  was  sent  for  from  Mexico  to 
reign  in  their  stead. 


NOT  TOLD   BY  DIANA.  119 

This  is  what  lies  between  them  and  the  past.  He  looks  at 
her  with  a  curious  emotion.  The  time  that  severs  them  from 
their  last  meeting  seems  doubly  long  from  all  that  has  hap- 
pened between  ;  life  is  changed  for  him  as  her ;  he  is  no 
longer  poor  Jack  Blount  with  an  indifferent  reputation  and 
"  that  unfortunate  story  of  his  mother"  attached  to  him, — he 
is  my  lord,  whom  mothers  and  chaperons  receive  with  open 
arms,  whose  free  manners  and  coarse  jokes  they  smile  indul- 
gently at,  as  proofs  of  "  delightful  eccentricity."  With  a 
certain  grim  humor  since  his  accession  to  title  and  fortune,  he 
enjoys  making  the  worst  of  himself  before  ladies^  and  seeing 
how  much  they  will  not  only  tolerate  but  take  from  him  with 
a  good  grace.  He  rarely  meets  with  a  rebuiF.  Diana's  is  the 
first  for  many  a  long  day ;  and  he  likes  her  none  the  less  for 
it.  But  he  is  not  improved  since  he  was  Jack  Blount.  And 
Lady  Grwyneth  ?  She  is  not  improved  either  ;  from  a  frank, 
merry  hoyden,  she  has  become  a  fast,  brusque  woman,  careless 
of  the  world's  opinion,  and  only  bent  on  finding  opium  in 
excitement,  to  still  the  voice  that  reminds  her  of  her  spoiled 
life. 

And  thus  they  meet.  Neither  has  a  guilty  thought  in  their 
heart  of  ever  being  aught  again  to  the  other,  and  yet,  how- 
ever hopeless,  it  is  sweet  to  be  together  once  again,  together 
and  alone. 

"  I  watched  you  all  this  evening,"  he  says,  in  a  low  voice. 
"  I  wanted  to  find  out  if  you  were  happy.  You  laughed  and 
talked." 

"  Is  it  only  happy  people  who  laugh  and  talk  ?"  she  inter- 
rupts him.  "Oh,  if  so,  what  a  voiceless,  mirthless  world  it 
would  be  !  Laugh  and  talk  I  I  do  all  day  and  half  the  night ; 
and  yet " 

"  Who  is  happy  ?"  he  answers.  "  Once  now  and  then, 
perhaps.  It  is  happiness  to  kill  a  wild  beast  that  has  been 
within  an  ace  of  killing  you;  it  is  happiness  to  land  a  big 


120  FOR   A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

salmon  you  have  played  for  an  hour, — you  know  that ;  it  is 
happiness  to  be  well  up  in  a  good  run  on  a  good  horse.  But 
those  things  don't  last.  If  I  knew  what  the  hereafter  was,  if 
there  is  one,  or,  better  still,  if  there  is  none,  I  should  say  it 
was  happiest  of  all  to  be  lying  fathoms  deep  under  the  sea,  or 
on  a  battle-field  with  your  foe  under  you,  and  a  bullet  through 
your  heart." 

The  speech  was  eminently  characteristic  of  the  man.  Lady 
Gwyneth  recognized  the  old  Jack  Blount  in  it,  and  smiled  a 
little  sadly  to  herself 

"  You  used  to  talk  to  me  like  that  long  ago,"  she  says.  "  I 
did  not  understand  you  then  ;  I  thought  life  a  happy  thing ; 
but  I  ean  understand  you  well  enough  now." 

"  Are  you  really  unhappy?"  he  asks,  anxiously. 

"  Have  you  seen  m?/  husband  f^  she  says,  briefly.  "  Well, 
you  know  what  I  was,  frank,  high-spirited,  outspoken.  What 
do  you  think  the  effect  would  be  on  me  of  being  tied  to  a  man 
whom  I  despise"  (with  a  gesture  of  loathing),  "  despise,  oh, 
more  than  any  words  can  tell !  All  my  nature  is  changed  ;  I 
hate  myself  too  ;  I  treat  him  shamefully,  yes  !  I  know  it  quite 
as  well  as  other  people  can  tell  me  ;  and  yet  something  in  me 
won't  let  me  alter  myself, — I  can't.  Why  does  he  not  turn 
round  upon  me  ?  I  should  respect  him  far  more  if  he  flew 
into  a  passion  with  me  or  bullied  me  ;  but  he  is  afraid  of  me 
— afraid  of  me  .'!' 

"  You  are  a  very  little  woman,"  says  Lord  Rexborough, 
smiling,  "  but  I  expect  you  can  be  rather  terrible." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?"  she  asks,  lifting  her  eyes  to  his  face. 
"Then"  (sighing)  "I  suppose  I  have  become  rather  a  vixen." 

The  door  opens :  Mr.  Warrington  and  Colonel  Fane  come 
in  Neither  knows  the  story  of  these  two,  or  dreams  of  in- 
terrupting a  tete-d,-tete.  Mr.  Warrington  challenges  Lady 
Gwyneth  to  a  game  of  billiards,  and,  as  she  plays.  Lord  Rex- 
borough, whilst  carrying  on  a  conversation  with  Colonel  Fane, 


NOT  TOLD  BY  DIANA.  121 

•watches  her,  and  thinks  somehow  that  the  cotton  gown  in 
which  she  used  to  trip  round  the  worn  old  billiard-table  at 
home  became  her  better  than  the  costly  lace  and  diamonds  of 
to-night ;  anyhow,  it  seemed  more  appropriate. 

Presently  Mrs.  Huntingdon  comes  in  with  Captain  Mon- 
tagu. ., 

"  Charlie,"  cries  Lord  Rexborough,  "  I'm  afraid  I  fright- 
ened that  pretty  little  friend  of  yours.  I'm  too  rough  for 
her :  she  won't  have  me  at  any  price." 

"  Really,"  utters  Mrs.  Huntingdon,  impatiently,  "  I  am 
getting  perfectly  sick  of  that  girl.  Her  virtuous  airs  are  quite 
insufierable !" 

"  I  don't  think  they  are  airs,"  interposes  Colonel  Fane. 
"  I  fancy  the  virtue  is  quite  natural."  ! 

"  How  down  you  women  always  are  upon  each  other!"  siiys 
Lord  Rexborough.  "  You  can  never  forgive  each  other  for 
being  pretty." 

''  Pretty  !"  interrupts  Lady  Gwyneth  :  "  I  should  hardly 
call  her  that :  "  she  has  the  heaute  de  diahle,  freshness." 

"  Really,  Lady  Gwyneth,"  says  Captain  Montagu,  "  I  think 
you  must  allow  that  she  is  pretty." 

"  Decidedly  pretty  !"  the  other  men  agree. 

Mrs.  Huntingdon  lifts  her  handsome  eyes  scornfully. 

"  I  never  knew  a  more  striking  instance  of  beauty  being 
'  in  the  eye  of  the  beholder,'  ' '  she  says,  throwing  herself  into 
a  low  chair. 

"  Hush  !  here  is  the  boy  !"  whispers  Colonel  Fane. 


11 


122  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 


CHAPTER   XIL 

Diana's  story. 

The  days  go  swiftly  by :  every  morning  I  say  to  myself, 
"  I  am  a  day  nearer  to  papa  and  Gay  and  the  animals ;" 
and  yet,  it  is  no  unfaith  or  treachery  to  them,  there  is  some- 
thino-  so  fasoinatin";  and  desirable  in  this  unaccustomed  life 
that  I  cannot  think  of  leaving  it  without  a  pang.  After  the 
luxury,  the  flattery  and  laughter,  the  old  home  will  seem 
quiet  and  dull  and  sombre ;  but  it  is  not  that, — oh,  not  that ! 
I  do  not  think  I  should  ever  be  one  of  those  who  think 
meanly  of  a  friend  because  he  wears  a  shabby  coat.  It  is 
not  the  dullness  or  the  poverty  of  Tiome  that  frightens  me  :  it 
is  the  thought  that  I  shall  lose  the  sight  of  one  face,  the 
I.Sound  of  one  voice,  that  my  poor  foolish  eyes  and  ears  have 
grown  to  feast  on.  A  cold  chill  strikes  my  heart  every  time 
I  remember  that  a  few  days,  such  a  few  days  hence,  he  will 
have  gone  forever  out  of  my  life.  And  I  am  nothing  to  him ! 
he  will  go  on  with  his  gay  pleasant  life,  which  no  faintest 
recollection  of  the  little  country-bred  girl  will  cross. 

One  evening  again  I  sing :  he  docs  not  come  near  me,  nor 
thank  n^'>as  the  others  do.  But  later  he  comes  and  whis- 
pers to  me, — 

"  I  want  you  to  do  me  a  great  favor.     Will  you?" 

My  eyes  glisten.     What  would  I  not  do  to  favor  him? 

"  I  have  a  passion  for  singing, — some  singing, — like  yours. 
The  Opera,  as  a  rule,  bores  me  to  death,  except  a  few  of 
those  lovely,  plaintive  solos.  After  all,  I  would  rather  hear 
Patti  sing  '  Home,  Sweet  Home,'  than  all  the  operas  in  crea- 


DIANA'S  STORY.  123 

tion.  I'm  awfully  fond  of  hymn-tunes,  those  lovely  ones  they 
sing  at  Wells  Street  (ah !  I  forget  you  don't  know  London). 
I  go  there  nearly  every  Sunday  afternoon.  But  best  of  all  I 
love  to  sit  in  an  arm-chair  and  listen  to  those  dear  old- 
fashioned  ballads  sung  by  a  voice  like  yours.  Not  that  I 
often  get  the  chance :  I  have  not  heard  many  such.  The 
only  time  I  ever  feel  as  if  I  had  a  soul  is  when  I  listen  to 
sweet  singing.  I  think"  (smiling)  "  you  might  quite  convert 
me  with  your  voice :  you  know  Orpheus  charmed  the  wild 
beasts  with  his  lyre,  and  I  don't  suppose  you  think  me  far 
removed  from  them." 

I  laugh  from  sheer  happiness  at  his  praise. 

"  But  the  favor !"  I  say,  interrogatively. 

"  I  want"  (bending  still  nearer) — "  I  want  you  to  sing  to 
me  alone." 

"Alone?"  I  repeat;  "but  how  can  I?  Do  you  mean  to 
ask  all  the  other  people  to  go  out  of  the  room  ?" 

"  I  want  you  to  make  a  rendezvous  with  me  for  to-morrow. 
Every  one  goes  out  in  the  afternoon.  Say  you  have  a  head- 
ache and  stop  at  home." 

"  But  I  never  had  a  headache  in  my  life." 

"  No  ?  I  thought  ladies  always  had  headaches  as  often  as 
they  liked.  What  is  your  particular  complaint  when  you 
want  an  excuse  ?" 

"  I  never  do  want  one.  I  have  only  to  say  to  papa  '  I  wish 
to'  go  out ;'  or,  '  I  wish  to  stay  at  home,'  and  he  never  ques- 
tions it."  .',; 

"  I  wish  ray  papa  was  like  that !"  laughs  Captain  Montagu. 
"  Unfortunately,  he  is  the  exact  opposite  of  yours.  But 
come"  (persuasively),  ".  do  manage  it  for  me  somehow,  and  I 
shall  be  ever  so  grateful  to  you." 

I  should  dearly  like  to  do  what  he  asks  me, — there  could 
be  no  harm  in  singing  to  him;  but  to  scheme  to  be  alone  with 
him,  even  for  so  innocent  a  purpose  1     No  :  impossible. 


124  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"  I  would  sing  to  you.  for  hours,  and  welcome,"  I  say,  "but 
wc  must  take  our  chance  of  there  being  some  one  else  present 
who  mii:ht  object." 

"  I  tell  you  how  we'll  manage  it :  we'll  start  for  a  walk  with 
Miss  Gore  and  Irvine:  they  always  walk, — I  suppose"  (laugh- 
ing) "  because  it's  the  only  chance  they  have  of  getting  away 
from  their  kind  here.  They  are  sure  to  lose  us,  or  we  them, 
and  then  we  will  come  back  and  have  it  all  to  ourselves. 
Shall  we  ?" 

A  guilty  joy  steals  across  me  as  I  smile  consent,  and  then 
he  leaves  me,  and  his  brother,  who  has  been  scowling  at  us 
from  the  other  side  of  the  room,  takes  his  place. 

"  What  has  my  brother  been  imparting  to  you  that  makes 
you  look  so  happy  ?"  he  asks,  in  his  cold  voice. 

"  If  I  look  happy,"  I  retort,  rather  indignantly,  "  it  is 
because  I  reflect  the  feces  of  the  people  I  talk  to.  Your 
brother  smiles  and  looks  pleasant,  so  I  do  the  same." 

"  And  you  are  reflecting  my  face  now,  I  suppose,"  he  says, 
with  slight  sarcasm.  "  Your  expression  is  quite  different 
from  what  it  was  a  moment  ago." 

"  Probably,"  I  reply,  for  I  am  considerably  nettled  by  his 
constant  personalities. 

He  gnaws  his  lip  for  a  moment,  and  then  says,  much  more 
softly, — 

"  I  wish  I  had  the  knack  of  pleasing  you  I  Do  you  know 
I  long  sometimes  to  play  eavesdropper  and  hear  what  these 
fellows  say  who  make  you  smile  and  look  so  brighc?" 

"  You  would  not  hear  much  wit  or  wisdom,"  I  respond, 
relaxing  into  a  smile :  "  the^subject  of  our  mirth  would  prob- 
ably cause  you  to  embrace  us  all  in  one  supreme  and  infinite 
contempt." 

"  Why  will  you  persist  in  thinking  me  such  a  prig  ?"  he 
says,  impatiently.  "  Do  you  think  /cannot  laugh  and  be  gay 
and  amused  too?" 


DIANA'S  STORY.  125 

I  look  askauce  at  him,  and  answer,  doubtfully,  "  I  don't 
know  :  I  dare  say." 

He  laughs  in  spite  of  himself. 

"  I  suppose  you  think  I  never  was  a  boy  and  trundled  a 
hoop  or  played  marbles." 

For  once  he  succeeds  in  making  me  laugh,  as  my  vivid 
imagination  pictures  the  grave  and  dignified  individual  before 
me  occupied  with  such  youthful  pastimes. 

"  You  see,"  I  say,  when  I  recover  myself,  "  what  a  small 
thing  it  takes  to  amuse  me." 

"  Anyhow,  I  am  fortunate  to  have  done  so  once,"  he  ob- 
serves, quite  good-temperedly  ;  and,  having  so  far  broken  the 
ice,  we  continue  quite  friendly  for  the  short  time  that  remains 
before  the  party  breaks  up  for  the  night. 

I  go  to  my  room  exuberantly  happy  at  the  thought  of  to- 
morrow's programme,  but  trembling,  too,  for  fear  something 
may  interfere  with  it.  But  it  comes  to  pass  as  he  has  decreed. 
Most  of  the  gentlemen  are  shooting, — all,  indeed,  except  Cap- 
tain Montagu,  Miss  Gore's  lover,  and  Lord  Rexborough,  who 
has  gone  hunting  with  Lady  Gwyneth.  We  start  for  our 
walk,  and  in  due  course  lose  our  companions ;  and  little  more 
than  half  an  hour  later  we  are  back  in  Mrs.  Warrington's 
boudoir,  I  at  the  piano.  Captain  Montagu  a  little  distance  off, 
buried  in  the  easiest  chair  in  the  room.  His  eyes  are  shut, 
and  his  face  slightly  averted  from  me. 

"I  am  not  asleep,"  he  says,  "but  I  cannot  use  my  eyes  and 
ears  both  ;  and  the  prettiest  woman  in  the  world  looks  less 
pretty  with  her  mouth  open,  singing.  I  shall  not  say, '  Thank 
you ;'  and  please  not  to  stop  for  a-  long  time." 

So  I  sing  on  and  on,  more  anxious  to  give  him  pleasure 
than  I  could  feel  to  win  the  approbation  of  a  thousand  other 
folk.  Once  now  and  then  I  let  my  eyes  steal  over  his  face 
with  secret  delight,  and  still  I  sing  on. 

It  begins  to  grow  dusk, — the  days  are  at  their  shortest.  I 
11* 


120  FOR  A    W G-MAN'S  SAKE. 

look  at  the  clock:  it  is  a  whole  hour  since  I  sat  down.  I 
close  the  piano  softly,  not  altogether  sure  that  my  voice  has 
not  had  the  soothing  though  unflattering  effect  of  sending  him 
to  sleep ;  but  no  sooner  have  I  done  so  than  he  opens  his  eyes, 
and,  rising,  comes  towards  me. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  says,  softly,  bending  down  to  me,  "  do 
you  know  that  you  have  given  me  more  pleasure  than  I  have 
felt  for  years?  I  can't  tell  you  how  I  have  enjoyed  this  after- 
noon. You  are  not  tired,  are  you?"  (tenderly).  "I  am  such 
a  selfish  brute, — I  am  afraid  I  never  think  of  any  one  but 
myself." 

"  I  am  glad  if  I  have  pleased  you,"  I  say,  looking  at  him, 
but  turning  my  eyes  as  quickly  away  again,  feeling,  I  know 
not  why,  unable  to  meet  his  gaze.  There  is  a  moment's 
pause,  and  then  he  stretches  out  his  hand  and  takes  one  of 
mine  which  lies  on  the  closed  piano.  His  touch  thrills  me 
like  an  electric  flame, — I  scarce  know  if  it  be  pain  or  pleasure. 
At  this  moment  I  hear  two  laughs,  one  loud,  one  shrill. 
Burning  with  shame,  I  essay  to  tear  my  hand  away,  but  Cap- 
tain Montagu  holds  it  tightly.    He  is  not  one  whit  embarrassed 

"  I  am  giving  Miss  Carew  a  lesson  in  palmistry,"  he  says, 
coolly.     "  Do  you  understand  the  science.  Lady  Gwyneth  ?" 

"  I  think  I  do,  as  practiced  by  you,' '  she  answers,  with  a 
burst  of  merriment,  in  which  Lord  Rexborough's  voice  joins. 

Captain  Montagu  opens  my  reluctant  palm  with  gentle 
force. 

"  She  has  a  very  long  line  of  life,"  he  remarks,  imperturb- 
ably  gazing  into  it. 

"  How  about  the  line  of  the  heart,  eh,  Charlie?"  roars  my 
lord,  approaching:  "let's  have  a  look." 

As  he  approaches,  I  tear  my  hand  away  and  put  both  be- 
hind my  back. 

"  What  a  timid  little  dove  it  is !"  he  cries.  "  Lady  Gwyneth, 
how  is  it  that  I  scare  Miss  Carew  so  horribly?" 


DIANA'S  STORY.  127 

"I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  she  returns,  in  the  same  tone. 
"  I  should  not  have  given  Miss  Carew  credit  for  being  shy. 
Evidently  Captain  Montagu  does  not  inspire  her  with  similar 
terror." 

"  You're  such  a  groat  hulking  fellow,  you  know,  Jack," 
laughs  Captain  Montagu,  putting  his  hand  on  the  other's 
shoulder ;  "  and  you  look  so  frightfully  fierce  ;  and  then,  with 
your  reputation  as  a  lion-slayer  and  your  sojourn  in  wild  parts, 
I  shouldn't  wonder  if  Miss  Carew  thinks  you  eat  human  flesh, 
and  is  rather  in  terror  of  her  life  when  you  come  too  near." 

"  Of  the  two  I  don't  suppose  I'm  as  dangerous  to  the  young 
lady  as  you  are,"  replies  my  lord.  "Come,  Miss  Carew,  won't 
you  give  us  another  of  those  sweet  songs  you  were  favoring 
this  lucky  fellow  with  just  now." 

"Do,"  says  Lady  Gwyn,  imperiously.  "  Sing  '  Auld  Robin 
Gray." 

But  my  voice  feels  choked ;  I  could  not  sing  now  to  please 
any  one:  so  I  rise  and  walk  away  from  the  piano,  saying,  "I 
am  afraid  I  have  no  voice  left." 

"  What  a  charming,  good-natured  girl !"  says  Lady  Gwyn, 
sotto  voce,  to  her  companion,  but  loud  enough  for  me  to  hear; 
and,  vexed  and  indignant,  I  leave  the  boudoir  and  seek  my 
own  room.  There  is  always  a  reverse  to  every  picture.  Still, 
I  have  pleased  him,  and  that  is  fifty  thousand  times  more 
to  me  than  the  displeasure  of  all  the  lords  and  ladies  in 
creation. 

During  the  last  few  days  I  have  seen  a  great  deal  of  Claire 
Fane,  and  every  day  I  like  her  better.  She  is  so  thoroughly 
kind  and  good,  so  pleasant  to  every  one,  and  somehow  seems 
to  have  a  way  of  drawing  together  the  most  uncongenial  ma- 
terials and  of  making  the  best  of  them.  Lord  Rexborough 
seems  less  loud  and  coarse  in  her  society,  Lady  Gwyneth  less 
fast,  Mrs.  Huntingdon  less  ill-tempered,  Hector  Montagu  less 
stifi"  and  formal. 


128  FOR   A    ]y OMAN'S  SAKE. 

I  have  an  idea. — it  may  be  groundless, — but  I  fancy  she 
has  a  great  regard  for  Mr.  Montagu :  a  faint  blush  comes  to 
hor  kind  pretty  face  when  he  addresses  her  sometimes,  she  is 
a  little  embarrassed  now  and  then  in  his  presence,  and  she 
never  finds  fault  with  what  he  says,  even  when  he  is  most 
cynical  and  uncharitable.  She  rather  apologizes  to  him  for 
what  he  condemns  than  blames  him  as  I  think  she  might  do 
for  his  fault-finding.  But  is  it  possible  that  she  can  care  for 
him  ?  Indeed  I  cannot  understand  his  attracting  any  one, — 
far  less  so  sweet  and  amiable  a  creature  as  Claire.  I  hope  I 
shall  see  more  of  her  when  I  leave  here.  I  love  her  already; 
and  I  know  papa  would  too  if  he  could  only  see  her ;  and  I 
think  he  and  Colonel  Fane  would  get  on  famously. 

The  last  day  of  our  stay  has  come :  to-morrow  we  are  going 
home.  I  long  to  see  them  all  again,  but,  oh,  I  wish  these  few 
little  golden  hours  that  are  left  would  not  speed  on  so  swiftly. 
On  this  last  evening.  Captain  Montagu  takes  me  in  to  dinner 
for  the  first  time.  It  is  only  seven  nights  removed  from  the 
dinner  that  I  found  so  grievously  long,  but  to-night  I  am  in- 
clined to  quarrel  with  the  great  gold  hands  that  run  so  swiftly 
round  the  cluck,  and  the  pendulum  that  swings  to  and  fro  with 
such  ill-natured  haste.  I  feel  in  boundless  spirits :  I  know 
that  my  lips  are  curved  in  smiles,  that  my  eyes  are  eager ;  I 
read  it  in  the  half-regretful,  half-amused  expression  on  Colonel 
Fane's  face,  in  the  angry  looks  of  Mr.  Montagu,  in  the  scorn 
of  IMrs.  Huntingdon's  handsome,  discontented  face,  and  the 
kind  smile  on  Claire's.  Our  stream  of  talk  ripples  on  :  it  is 
neither  wise  nor  witty,  but  sweeter  to  me  than  any  pearls  of 
elcquencc  that  could  flow  from  the  lips  of  any  other  man. 
The  words  that  make  such  music  in  my  ears  are  commonplace 
enough,  and,  were  they  uttered  by  another  voice,  would  hold 
none  of  their  present  charm. 

"  I  am  so  awfully  sorry  you  are  going  to-morrow,"  say  the 
mouth  and  eyes  I  find  so  handsome.     "  I  can't  forgive  my- 


DIANA'S  STORY.  129 

self  for  having  wasted  so  many  hours  when  I  first  came.  But 
then  you  know"  (smiling)  "  I  never  expected  to  find  an 
unmarried  lady  so  charming." 

I  laugh  gleefully. 

"  What  shall  I  do  for  pretty  speeches  when  I  get  back  to 
my  rustic  life?"  I  ask.  "  To-morrow"  (with  a  shade  of  sad- 
ness) "  I  shall  have  dropped  out  of  fairy-land  and  be  a  little 
Cindei-ella  again." 

"  I  wish  I  could  be  your  fairy  godmother,"  he  says.  "I 
should  like  to  take  you  to  London  and  show  you  a  little  of 
life :  I  wouldn't  even  mind  turning  into  a  plumed  and  tur- 
baned  chaperon  for  one  season  to  attend  you  everywhere. 
How  tremendously  indulgent  and  long-sufFering  I  should  be, 
and  how  confoundedly  jealous  of  all  your  admirers !" 

I  laugh  outright. 

"  What !  if  you  were  a  plumed  and  turbaned  dowager !" 

"Ah,  I  am  afraid  I  was  mixing  up  identities,"  he  laughs. 
''Never  mind:  to-night,  thank  Heaven,  I  am  admirer  only; 
and  I  have  persuaded  Mrs*  Warrington  to  let  us  have  a  dance, 
and  you"  (whispering)  "  are  going  to  waltz  with  me  twice,  if 
Hector  shoots  me  for  it  to-morrow." 

"  Never  mind  your  brother  !"  I  exclaim,  impatiently. 

"  I'm  afraid  your  education  has  been  sadly  neglected  on 
some  important  points,"  says  Captain  Montagu,  with  an 
amused  smile.  "  You  don't  seem  to  understand  the  differ- 
ence between  a  j^nrtt  and  a  detrimental^'' 

"  What  is  a  detrimental  ?"  I  ask,  curiously. 

"  A  man  who  cannot  marry  you  himself,  and  who  keeps 
other  men  off.     I  am  a  detrimental." 

My  cheeks  are  aflame  in  an  instant.  Fortunately,  Mrs. 
Warrington  is  just  rising  to  go.  Oh,  I  wish  he  had  not  said 
that !  Surely  he  does  not  think  for  one  moment  that  I  am  so 
conceited  and  silly  as  to  need  a  caution  from  him  that  he  is 
only  beguiling  an  idle  hour  in  my  society.  Why  did  lie 
p* 


130  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

poison  the  cup  that  was  so  sweet  a  moment  ago,  by  giving  me 
foretaste  of  the  dregs  ? 

AVe  arc  in  the  liall,  and  Claire  passes  her  arm  through 
mine. 

"  I  am  ghid  your  last  evening  is  such  a  pleasant  one  !"  she 
says,  kindly ;  and  I  answer,  "  Yes,  it  is,  very, — thanks  ;"  but 
my  tone  is  not  so  hearty  as  it  would  have  been  a  minute 
since. 

"Rochester  is  going  to  drive  me  over  to  see  you  f^oon," 
she  says.  "And  I  hope  we  are  going  to  be  real  neighbors, 
and  to  see  a  great  deal  of  each  other." 

"  Oh,  I  shall  be  so  glad  !"  I  exclaim,  heartily;  "  we  are  so 
very  dull  and  quiet  at  home,  and  I  dare  say  I  shall  feel  it 
more  now  that  I  have  had  all  this  gayety.  It  will  be  delight- 
ful having  something  to  look  forward  to.  Only,"  I  continue, 
reddening  a  little,  yet  feeling  constrained  to  tell  her,  "  we 
live  in  a  very  small,  quiet  way,  you  know,  because " 

"  My  dear,"  she  says,  interrupting  me,  and  giving  my  hand 
a  kind  little  squeeze,  "  I  am  coming  to  see  i/ou,  and  the  dogs 
and  the  kittens  and  all  your  other  pets." 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

Diana's  story. 


My  last  evening  is  a  triumphant  one.  Every  one  is  kind ; 
every  one  except  Lady  Gwyneth  and  Mrs.  Huntingdon  tell 
me  they  are  sorry  I  am  going ;  but  I  hear  Lady  Gwyn,  to 
whom  Curly  is  paying  devoted  attention,  deploring  his  leav- 
ing "Warrington,  and  making  him  promise  (which  he  does 
eagerly)  to  go  and  stay  with  her  at  the  Castle.     Our  kind 


DIANA'S  STORY.  131 

host  and  hostess  press  us  to  remain,  but  I  feel,  and  I  think 
Curly  does,  that  papa  will  be  expecting  us  and  might  be  dis- 
appointed. 

Half  my  pleasure  is  over.  I  have  had  one  delicious  waltz, 
and  forgotten  all  about  the  little  speech  that  vexed  mc.  I 
have  danced  with  kind  Colonel  Fane,  who  has  been  kinder  than 
ever,  and  with  ]Mr.  Montagu,  who  has  struggled  very  hard  to 
keep  down  his  displeasure  and  to  be  genial,  and  with  nearly 
every  one  but  Lord  Rexborough.  For  one  moment  I  am 
alone,  and  he  takes  the  opportunity  to  come  and  stretch  his 
huge  bulk  on  the  sofa  beside  mc. 

"  Won't  you  make  it  up?"  he  says,  putting  his  face  close 
to  mine  with  his  most  satyrish  look.  "  This  is  your  last  chance, 
you  know." 

"  I  do  not  know  of  anything  to  make  up,"  I  reply,  stiffly. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  do,"  he  retorts.  "  You  were  deuced  angry 
because  I  warned  you  about  Master  Charlie.  You'd  much 
better  have  spent  your  pleasant  looks  and  smiles  on  the  other 
brothel",  or  on  me  for  the  matter  of  that"  (with  a  laugh). 
"  I've  sworn  not  to  marry  ;  but  I  don't  at  all  know,  if  you 
were  to  look  at  me  like  you  do  at  Charlie,  that  I  shouldn't  be 
capable  of  breaking  my  vow.  Here  he  comes, — confound  the 
fellow  !  always  in  my  way.  I  say,  Charlie,  just  you  leave  us 
together  for  a  minute,  will  you  ? — we're  making  our  peace." 

But  Captain  INIontagu  reads  the  entreaty  in  my  face  too 
well  to  comply. 

"  My  time  is  so  short,  I  am  not  going  to  give  up  a  minute 
of  it,"  he  says,  laughing.  "  Why  haven't  you  done  it  before  ? 
It's  too  late  now.     IJ' occasion  perdu  ne  revient  jamaisy 

"  What  a  selfish  dog  you  are  !  Why  don't  you  stick  to  the 
marines  and  leave  the  ingenues  alone?" 

"  I  hear  music.  Come,  Miss  Carew."  And  in  another 
minute  we  are  floating  down  the  ball-room.  I  shall  never  for- 
get that  waltz.     It  is  over,  and  he  leads  me  away  into  the 


132  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

conservatory,  and  seats  me  on  the  couch  from  which  I  once 
fled  in  such  liot  liaste  from  Lord  Rexborough. 

"And  you  are  really  going  to-morrow  1"  he  says,  regret- 
fully, turning  his  blue  eyes  upon  me. 

"  Really,"  I  say,  regretfully  too. 

"  So  am  I,  for  the  matter  of  that,"  he  continues,  "  and  we 
are  both  going  home.  Your  father  will  be  glad  to  see  you. 
Well,  I  can't  flatter  myself  that  the  sight  of  me  will  awaken 
much  joy  in  the  paternal  breast.  I'm  the  prodigal  who  has 
returned  once  too  often.  They've  given  up  killing  the  fatted 
calf  for  me, — which,  on  the  whole,"  he  adds,  laughing,  "  I 
don't  regret ;  for  I  hate  veal." 

"And  shall  you  be  long  at  home?"  I  ask,  with  a  vague 
sense  that  it  will  be  pleasant  to  think  he  is  still  in  the  same 
county. 

"  Only  for  a  day  or  two  ;  and  then  I  return  to  those  ardu- 
ous duties  about  which  I  once  told  you.  But  I  shall  be  down 
again  before  long.  How  should  you  greet  me  if  I  walked 
suddenly  in  upon  you  one  day  ?" 

My  heart  beats  faster,  my  eyes  ghsten,  but  I  say  nothing, 
for  I  remember  our  homely  manner  of  life,  and  think  how 
uncongenial  it  would  seem  to  this  fine  gentleman. 

"  You  do  not  wish  me  to  come?"  he  says,  softly. 

"  You  would  not  care  to,"  I  answer.  "  And  in  a  week — 
in  less,  I  dare  say — you  will  have  forgotten  you  ever  met  such 
a  humble  personage  as  I." 

"  No,  I  shall  not,"  he  whispers,  taking  my  hand  and  hold- 
ing it  so  gently  that  I  am  fain  to  leave  it  there.  "  I  shall 
never  forget  you." 

It  seems  like  a  dream.  I  half  close  my  eyes  with  a  dread 
of  awaking  from  so  much  happiness. 

"  Darling  !"  he  whispers,  and  his  lips  touch  mine.  I  start 
away,  and  stand  angrily  against  the  trellis-work :  the  spell  is 
broken. 


DIANA'S  STORY.  133 

''  How  could  you  ?"  I  say,  reproachfully,  feeling  dreadfully 
hurt  aud  ashamed. 

"  Don't  be  angry  !"  he  entreats.  "  I  could  not  help  it :  I 
am  awfully  sorry, — no,  that  is  not  true,"  he  says,  with  a  little 
smile,  "  but  I  will  not  offend  again." 

So  we  go  back  to  the  dancing-room,  where  every  one  is  say- 
ing good-night,  and  I  go  up-stairs  with  light  feet  but  a  heavy 
heart  I  am  going  away  to-morrow, — to-day,  even  :  in  fifteen 
hours  I  shall  have  turned  my  back  on  all  these  new-found  de- 
lights, and  nine  of  those  must  be  given  to  dull  sleep  or  duller 
waking.  A  tinge  of  bitterness  flavors  the  cup  that  would 
otherwise  be  so  sweet.  Does  he  think  lightly  of  me,  and  have 
I  given  him  cause  ?  Is  it  not  some  want  of  maidenly  modesty 
that  even  now  sends  a  thrill  of  joy  to  my  heart  at  the  remem- 
brance of  the  touch  of  his  lips  ?  Red  shame  dyes  my  face, 
my  neck,  glows  even  to  my  finger-tips.  Oh,  if  that  one  sweet 
moment  should  have  lost  me  his  esteem  ! 

The  next  morning  is  wet.  No  one  goes  out,  and  I  am  asked 
to  sing.  Captain  Montagu  has  not  had  an  opportunity  of 
speaking  to  me  this  morning  even  had  he  wished  it.  I  do 
not  know  if  he  does.  His  brother  has  scarcely  left  me  for  a 
moment,  and  he, — he  has  been  talking  to  Mrs.  Huntingdon, 
who  for  once  has  come  down  to  breakfast.  I  feel  the  keenest 
pangs  of  jealousy.  I  try  hard  not  to  let  my  eyes  glance  in 
their  direction,  but  in  spite  of  me  they  will.  His  smile,  which 
seems  so  unutterably  sweet  when  it  falls  on  me, — I  hate  it  now 
it  is  bent  on  another  woman.  What  can  he  be  saying  to  her? 
—  her  dark  brows  are  unbent  and  wide  with  smiles ;  she  looks 
up  in  his  face  with  that  expression  which  made  me  wonder 
once  how  her  husband  could  bear  it.  Involuntarily  I  look 
round  for  him.  I  wish  he  would  see  and  resent  it,  but  he  is 
there  in  full  sight  of  her,  discoursing  most  cheerfully  to  Lady 
Gwyneth.  I  feel  a  contempt  for  him  in  ray  secret  heart.  But 
I  am  going  to  sing  now  :  it  is  my  one  weapon  against  all  hers, 

12 


134  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

— against  her  handsome  focc,  her  exquisite  apparel,  her  jewels, 
and  those  other  charms  unknown  to  me  which  seem  to  harass 
the  souls  of  men.  I  am  not  nervous  now:  I  throw  all  my 
heart — that  foolish  heart  which  will  have  no  more  use  after 
to-day — into  my  voice.  She  talks  on  loudly.  He  makes  a 
little  sign  of  hush,  but  her  eyes  flash  angrily  and  she  talks 
louder  still.  Then,  oh,  triumph  !  he  moves  softly  away  and 
ensconces  himself  in  a  low  arm-chair  with  closed  eyes  and 
listens.  And  I  sing  on  to  him, — yes,  to  him,  though  it  may 
be  his  brother  who  thanks  and  praises  me,  or  Colonel  Fane,  or 
Sir  George,  or  Mr.  Warrington.  And  when  I  have  sung  my 
last  and  my  best,  he  uncloses  those  long-fringed  lids  that  I 
have  seen  all  the  time,  though  I  seemed  not  to  look,  and 
comes  towards  me. 

"  IMiss  Carew,"  he  says,  in  the  pleasant  languid  tone  which 
he  particularly  affects,  and  which  I  believe  provokes  men 
(that  is,  the  men  who  are  jealous  of  him)  and  pleases  women, 
"  what  an  inestimable  treasure  you  will  be  to  some  one  !  Only 
I  hope  you  won't  be  like  most  women  and  give  up  singing 
when  you  marry." 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  may  do,"  I  answer,  "  when  anything 
so  improbable  occurs." 

"  Improbable !"  echoes  his  brother,  on  the  other  side. 
"  Pray,  Miss  Carew,  do  you  contemplate  taking  the  veil  ?" 

"  I  might  as  well,"  I  answer,  laughing :  "  when  I  am  at 
home,  my  life  is  something  like  a  nun's." 

"  We'll  come  over  and  invade  the  sanctuary ;  won't  wo, 
Hector  ?"  but  the  latter  only  frowns.  "  I  believe  we  are  only 
about  fifteen  miles  from  you,"  pursues  Captain  Montagu,  "  and 
tradition  says  that  your  family  and  ours  were  bosom  friends 
once." 

"  Ah,"  I  reply,  coloring,  "  but  it  was  different  then.  We 
■ "  but  here  I  stop. 

"  As  soon  as  I  get  to  London,"  says  Captain  Montagu, 


DIANA'S  STORY.  135 

adroitly  changing  the  conversation,  ''  I  am  going  to  send  you 
some  lovely  songs  by  Gounod  and  Sullivan,  and  then  if  ever 
I  do  have  the  bliss  of  meeting  you  again,  and"  (laughing) 
"  you  have  not  given  up  your  music,  I  hope  I  shall  have  the 
extreme  gratification  of  hearing  you  sing  them." 

Our  visit  is  over :  we  have  gone  through  all  the  cordial 
hand-shakings,  and  kind  regrets,  and  hopes  for  future  meet- 
ings. I  have  wished  all  good-by  but  one.  Where  is  he? 
My  heart  sinks  with  bitter  disappointment :  we  are  on  the  eve 
of  starting, — when  a  voice  cries,  "  Stop  !"  and  Captain  Mon- 
tagu appears  beside  me  at  the  window  with  a  lovely  bouquet. 

"  I  asked  permission  first,  and  then  I  robbed  the  green- 
houses," he  says,  putting  it  in  my  hand  :  "  it  is  a  little  foreign 
custom  which  I  always  took  to,  sending  off  your  friends  wilh 
a  floral  souvenir.  Good-by,  Curly :  I  shall  see  lots  of  you 
this  summer  at  Windsor.  Adieu,  belle  deesse — au  revoir,  I 
hope."  And  he  presses  my  hand  softly,  takes  off  his  hat, 
and  we  are  rolling  down  the  avenue. 

"  Oh,  Di !"  says  Curly,  regretfully,  "  what  an  awfully  jolly 
time  we  have  had  !    Aren't  you  dreadfully  sorry  it  is  all  over  ?" 

But  just  at  the  moment  I  am  triumphantly  happy ;  this 
little  episode  of  the  flowers  has  turned  my  mourning  into  joy. 

"  It  has  been  delightful,"  I  answer;  "but  we  are  going  to 
see  papa  ;  how  glad  he  will  be  to  see  us !  and  Gay, — I  dare 
say  what  a  state  of  fuss  and  expectation  she  is  in  at  this 
very  moment.     It  will  be  very  nice  telling  them  all  about  it." 

"  Yes,"  Curly  assents,  but  he  is  looking  out  of  the  window 
rather  blankly.  Presently  he  turns  his  face  to  me  again :  it 
has  lost  its  usual  joyous  expression,  and  wears  a  shade  of 
mortification. 

"  Isn't  it  an  awful  bore  to  be  poor,  Di !"  he  says,  despond- 
ingly. 

"  Perhaps  it  is,  dear  boy,"  I  assent,  consolingly.  "  But  you 
know"  (with  secret  conviction)  "  it  does  not  strike  me  that  all 


136  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

thesg  people  we  have  just  left  are  so  particularly  happy,  and 
yet  I  suppose  they  have  everything  that  money  can  command. 
I  don't  believe  they  enjoyed  themselves  half  so  much  as  we 
did.  Captain  IMoutagu"  (turning  a  little  aside)  "  told  me  he 
was  dreadfully  bored  nearly  always." 

"  Oh,  that  was  his  humbug !  all  those  fellows  talk  in  that 
way.  But  what  I  feel  is,  you  know,  it's  awfully  nice  getting 
asked  out,  and  every  one  being  so  kind  and  good-natured,  but 
— but.  Pi"  (coloring  a  little),  "  one  feels  so  shabby  at  not 
being  able  to  return  it." 

"  Yes,  I  know,  dear,"  I  respond  ;  "  but"  (putting  my  arm 
round  his  neck)  "  I  don't  think  i/ou  need  feel  like  that.  Why, 
if  we  were  ever  so  rich,  what  could  we  give  them  more  than 
they  are  used  to  have  every  day  of  their  lives?  but  you 
amuse  them  and  make  them  laugh,  and  they  like  to  see  your 
bright  cheery  face ;  so  I  consider  you  make  them  an  ample 
return,  and  I  am  sure  they  are  quite  satisfied  with  that,  and 
would  be  sorry  perhaps  if  you  could  make  them  any  other." 

"  I  think  our  visit  was  a  success.  We  both  got  on  cap- 
itally ;  didn't  we  ?"  he  remarks,  with  returning  complacency. 
"  Really,  Di,  you  looked  uncommon  well ;  you  did,  now,  in- 
deed. All  the  fellows  liked  you.  I  wish  you  hadn't  snubbed 
Rexborough  so ;  he's  a  thundering  good  fellow,  really." 

"  Is  he  ?"  I  respond,  dryly.  "  Well,  his  thunder  is  as  terri- 
ble to  me  as  Jove's  might  have  been  to  the  ancients ;  but  it 
does  not  follow,  dear  boy,  that  we  are  always  to  like  the  same 
people  :  indeed,  it  isn't  natural  we  should.  But  you  may  be 
sure  I  shall  not  quarrel  with  any  one  for  liking  you,"  I  add, 
putting  my  hand  on  his  crisp  gold  curls  in  quite  a  maternal 
way.  I  do  feel  very  motherly  towards  him,  though  there  is 
only  two  years'  difference  between  us.  We  are  drawing  near 
home. 

"  Curly,"  I  say,  with  some  difl&dence, — "  don't  mind  my 
saying  it, — of  course  I  know  you  won't,  but,  dear,  I  should 


DIANA'S  STORY.  137 

not  like  you  to  hint  anything  before  papa  about  our  not  being 
able  to  make  people  any  return." 

"  Why,  of  course  not,  Di.  As  if  I  should  !  You  need  not 
be  afraid  of  my  saying  anything  to  hurt  the  dear  old  Dad. 
There  he  is.  Hurrah  !"  (waving  his  hat  frantically  out  of  the 
■window). 

Yes,  there  he  stands  waiting  for  us  on  the  doorstep,  look- 
ing so  glad,  and  there  behind  him  at  a  respectful  distance  are 
fluttering  cap-ribbons,  which  I  know  adorn  the  person  of  none 
other  than  Mrs.  Susannah  Gay.  A  minute  later,  and  I  have 
flung  myself  round  papa's  neck  like  a  young  whirlwind,  with 
an  odd  swelling  in  my  throat  and  foolish  but  happy  tears  brim- 
ming in  my  eyes.  What  a  goose  I  must  be !  And  then  I 
turn  to  Gay,  radiant  and  red  from  Curly's  embrace.  The  pug 
is  nearly  tearing  me  to  pieces  with  excitement,  cook  in  the  dis- 
tance bobs  respectful  curtsies,  the  girl  stands  with  wide  grins 
of  welcome,  holding  Othello  and  Desdemona  under  each  arm. 
It  is  a  homely  home-coming,  but  I  think  it  would  have  given 
us  less  pleasure  to  walk  through  the  old  hall  if  it  had  been 
lined  with  obsequious  retainers.  There  is  such  a  fire  in  the 
morning  room,  such  a  cake,  such  hot  buttered  toast,  and  "the 
kettle  came  to  the  bile  just  as  the  carriage  turned  into  the 
avenue,"  says  Gay.  And  while  she  busies  herself  with  the 
teapot.  Curly  and  I  breathlessly  recite  our  talcs  of  splendor 
and  delight,  and  papa  beams  with  smiles,  and  looks  happier,  I 
think,  than  I  have  ever  seen  him. 

"And  we  shall  be  losing  Di  soon.  Dad  !"  rattles  Curly  ;  "  I 
can  tell  you,  she's  taken  all  the  fellows  by  storm,  and  there'll  be 
duels  and  rumors  of  duels,  and  somebody  carrying  her  off"  one 
of  these  fine  days  under  our  very  noses." 

"  Curly,  you  goose,  hold  your  tongue  !"  I  cry.  "  Ah,  papa, 
he  is  afraid  of  my  having  t'lie  first  word.  You  have  no  idea 
what  a  young  Admirable  Crichton  this  boy  is,  and  what  a  fusd 
all  the  lovely  ladies  make  about  him  !" 


138  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"At  any  rate,"  says  our  father,  smiling,  "you  both  seem  to 
have  enjoyed  your  visit." 

Gay,  having  poured  out  the  t«a,  modestly  makes  a  show  of 
retiring,  but  is  not  allowed.  She  is  one  of  the  family,  and  we 
liave  no  secrets  from  her.  But  she  is  always  very  shy  and 
respectful  in  papa's  presence,  and  only  looks  the  "  Law's !  Well, 
I  never's  !  Dear  bless  my  heart's  !"  with  which  she  notes  and 
commentates  our  stories  in  private.  We  spend  a  delightful 
evening  in  the  recital  of  all  our  fine  doings,  and  somehow  I 
forget  to  make  any  disparaging  contrasts  between  our  own 
shabl)iness  and  the  luxury  from  which  we  have  just  come. 
Ah !  there  is  something  about  home,  when  it  is  a  happy  one. 
with  which  the  stateliest  palace  in  the  world  cannot  compete. 

But  next  morning,  when  all  our  tales  are  told,  when  we  have 
visited  our  pets  and  all  our  usual  haunts,  when  papa  and 
Curly  have  gone  off  with  their  guns,  I  am  conscious  of  a  cer- 
tain sensation  of  blankness  and  void  that  I  have  never  known 
before :  it  is  the  reaction,  I  suppose.  A  sort  of  despair  creeps 
into  my  heart  as  I  stand  looking  at  the  flowers  he  gave  me. 
This  time  yesterday  I  was  singing  to  him,  and  now  perhaps  I 
shall  never  see  him  again.  I  dare  say  he  has  already  forgotten 
me. 

The  flowers  grow  blurred  and  dim  ;  their  delicate  hues  are 
merged  mistily  in  each  other  fur  a  moment,  and  then  two 
great  tears  roll  down  my  cheeks.  Alas !  I  have  eaten  of  the 
fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowledge.  When  I  knew  of  nothing 
different,  I  was  blithe  and  happy  in  my  home.  "  Oh,  why, 
why  should  I  have  had  this  glimpse  of  Paradise,"  I  cry,  passion- 
ately, to  myself,  "  if  it  is  only  to  make  me  discontented  with 
what  sufiiced  me  well  enough  before  ?"  For,  looking  back,  it 
all  seems  to  me  like  Paradise. 


KOT  TOLD   BY  DIANA.  139 


CHAPTEK    XIV. 


NOT   TOLD   BY  DIANA. 


Alford  Court  is  one  of  the  oldest  places  in  England. 
It  has  not  one  but  many  histories,  as  even  the  most  un- 
pretentious, unromantic  house  is  bound  to  have  after  standing 
a  certain  number  of  centuries.  It  has  its  venerable  oaks, 
hundreds  of  years  old,  with  sides  riven  and  branches  scathed 
by  many  a  fierce  storm ;  it  has  its  big  lake,  full  of  carp,  some 
of  them  as  old,  it  is  said,  as  the  oaks ;  it  has  its  grand  old 
gateway,  with  the  ball-room  over,  in  which  fair  young  forms 
once  tripped  gayly  that  are  now  but  as  few  grains  of  dust.  In- 
side the  house  are  many  silver  and  brass-bound  oaken  presses 
and  cabinets ;  the  carved  mantel-pieces  ascend  to  the  ceilings, 
the  brass  dogs  still  stand,  brightly  burnished,  on  the  hearths. 
There  is  a  great  store  of  china ;  huge  bowls  and^  jars  filled 
with  pot-pourri  as  sweet  now  as  when  it  was  confectioned  by 
the  dainty  fingers  of  some  long-since  dead  chdfelaine.  There 
are  long,  oaken,  picture-hung  corridors  with  mullioned  windows 
looking  out  over  a  sea  of  lawn,  broken  here  and  there  by  some 
grand  old  cedar.  It  is  easy  to  see  that  emerald  velvet  turf 
has  never  been  rufiled  by  croquet-hoops :  only  one  donkey  is 
ever  allowed  there,  as  the  host  says  with  grim  facetioui^ness, 
and  that  is  the  leather-booted  one  which  draws  the  mowing- 
machine.  Sir  Hector  Montagu,  the  master  of  Alford  Court 
and  of  many  adjacent  demesnes,  has  a  rooted  aversion  for 
croquet, — the  cause  of  more  mesalliances^  he  avers,  than  any 
pastime  ever  invented. 

"A  parcel  of  silly  women,"  quoth  he,  "  glad  of  any  excuse 
for  idhng  away  their  time  and  making  eyes  at  somebody, — if 


140  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

it's  only  the  poor  little  whipper-snapper  curate,  and  ready  to 
pull  caps  even  over  him ;  then  one  fine  day  your  daughter 
(thank  God,  my  lady,  you  never  blessed  me  with  one),  your 
daughter  comes  to  you  in  hysterics  and  informs  you  she  never 
can  love  anybody  but  the  Reverend  Jones,  whose  income  is 
probably  something  under  a  hundred  a  year."  So  Sir  Hector, 
though  he  has  no  daughter,  still  declines  to  encourage  folly  in 
those  of  other  men ;  and,  although  no  young  lady  ever  comes 
to  the  place  without  exclaiming  "  What  a  heavenly  lawn  for 
croquet !"  (this  being  in  the  days  before  it  was  superseded  by 
lawn  tennis  and  Badminton),  Sir  Hector's  fiat  having  once  gone 
forth  was  unalterable  as  the  laws  of  the  Medes  and  Persians. 

The  master  of  Alford  Court  was  an  autocrat :  de  tout  ce 
quily  a  de  plus  autocraie, — not  even  the  Emperor  of  all  the 
Russias  could  be  more  absolute  than  Sir  Hector  in  his  own 
domain.  If  he  had  leen  a  Turkish  pacha  in  the  good  old 
times,  how  he  would  have  had  his  wretched  subjects  bow- 
strung  and  bastinadoed !  if  a  Chinese  potentate,  what  rows 
of  grinning  heads  would  have  chronicled  his  attacks  of  liver  1 
if  a  West  Indian  planter,  what  scourgings  would  have  testified 
to  the  disagreeing  of  last  night's  banquet !  Living  in  the 
highly  civilized  nineteenth  century,  when  moral  scourging 
and  the  laceration  of  our  friends'  hearts  and  our  foes'  feelings 
are  the  only  cruelties  tolerated  in  polite  society,  and  being 
also  one  of  the  most  highly  cultivated  and  polished  gentlemen 
of  his  time  (in  company),  Sir  Hector  had  still  a  victim  whom 
he  was  wont  habitually  to  bowstring  and  bastinado,  to  decapi- 
tate and  to  whip, — a  victim  perpetually  at  hand,  too,  a  great 
conveniencJe,  and  who  was — need  I  say  it  ? — his  wife.  Poor 
lady !  what  a  time  she  had  with  her  remorseless  old  tyrant ! 
It  was  not  alone  her  own  shortcomings  she  suffered  for,  but 
for  those  of  the  whole  household  and  neighborhood.  Sons, 
butler,  men-servants  and  maid-servants,  grooms  and  garden- 
ers, tenants  and  laborers,  on  the  slim  shoulders  of  poor  Lady 


NOT  TOLD   BY  DIANA.  141 

Montagu  fell  all  the  weight  of  their  frequent  misdoings.  Was 
the  soup  too  hot  or  too  cold,  a  sarcastic  compliment  to  my 
lady  .on  her  cook  and  her  own  housewifely  proclivities  tes- 
tified to  his  displeasure ;  if  Charlie  got  into  debt,  his  mother 
of  course  was  alone  responsible ;  so  from  the  most  trivial  to 
the  greatest  incident  that  vexed  him,  my  lady  was  the  fetish 
he  banged  and  battered  incessantly.  Sir  Hector  affected  the 
old  school ;  his  creed  forbade  him  to  bluster  or  bully:  sarcasm 
was  the  weapon  on  which  he  transfixed  the  luckless  ones  who 
came  under  his  sovereign  displeasure,  and,  as  a  natural  conse- 
quence, was  the  one  he  was  himself  totally  unable  to  bear. 
Only  one  member  of  the  household  could  and  dared  meet  the 
autocrat  upon  his  own  ground, — his  heir ;  and  he  rarely,  but 
in  defense  of  his  mother  or  some  other  oppressed  mortal. 
Before  the  world,  Sir  Hector  had  a  grand,  stately  demeanor : 
it  impressed  strangers  immensely.  Towards  women  especially 
he  comported  himself  with  a  delightful  mixture  of  old- 
fashioned  courtesy  and  bland  protection  :  on  first  acquaint- 
ance they  always  pronounced  him  "a  charming  old  man," 
though  their  enthusiasm  generally  abated  on  closer  acquaint-' 
ance.  "  Finish  the  prologue  and  draw  up  the  curtain  !"  says 
the  reader. 

Tinkle  goes  the  bell,  up  rolls  the  curtain  and  discloses — Sir 
Hector  and  Lady  Montagu  with  their  two  sons  seated  at  din- 
ner, in  a  magnificent  banqueting-hall,  each  with  a  gorgeous 
liveried  servant  behind  his  chair.  This  is  one  of  Sir  Hector's 
whims,  and  one  that  is  a  peculiar  abomination  to  his  sons.  Sir 
Hector  will  dine  in  state, — company  or  no  company.  There 
is  a  charming  cosy  little  dining-room  close  by,  perfection  for  a 
small  party,  where  the  other  three  members  of  the  family 
would  fain  dine,  waited  on  by  one  servant,  or  two  at  the  most. 
Sir  Hector  wills  it  otherwise ;  he  likes  to  dine  in  the  vast  hall, 
— the  only  concession  to  whose  vastness  is  a  great  screen 
placed  half-way  across ;  and  he  likes  to  eat  his  dinner  with 


142  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

ten  watchful  eyes  obsequiously  observant  of  every  morsel  that 
he  transfers  from  his  plate  to  his  mouth.  For  if  he  and  my 
lady  are  dining  tefe-d-tete  he  will  have  the  butler  and  four 
footmen  in  the  room,  though  they  do  nothing  but  stand  at 
attention  in  front  of  or  at  ease  behind  him  all  through  dinner. 

"  Gad  !"  says  poor  Charlie  to  his  mother,  "  I  don't  know 
how  you  stand  this  sort  of  thing  night  after  night,  my  poor 
dear  Mater.  Don't  you  long  and  pray  for  the  old  man's 
death  ?" 

"  Oh,  Charlie  dear,  pray  hush  !"  cries  his  mother,  in  a  ter- 
rified whisper,  looking  over  her  shoulder.  "  Pray,  pray  don't 
say  such  dreadful  things." 

"  Why,  mother,','  laughs  her  scapegrace  son,  "  you  look  as 
terrified  as  if  you  had  the  real  old  gentleman  behind  you. 
Don't  be  alarmed :  his  prototype  is  ten  miles  ofi"  at  this  mo- 
ment, and  there  is  no  fear  of  that  steady-going  old  cob  of  his 
doing  anything  indiscreet, — worse  luck  !  But  to  return  to  our 
mutton,  served  up  on  the  family  plate  with  that  old  raven  and 
his  four  paroquets  staring  down  our  throats  as  if  they  be- 
grudged us  every  morsel.  Gad !  it  takes  every  bit  of  my  appe- 
tite away,  and  makes  me  so  confoundedly  nervous  I  spill 
something  down  the  front  of  my  shirt  nearly  every  night. 
And  all  this  swagger  for  a  little  trumpery  country  baronet !" 

"  Charlie  !  Charlie  !"  interposes  his  mother,  quite  shocked. 

"  Have  as  much  state  as  you  like  when  you  are  entertain- 
ing,— twenty  servants,  thirty,  in  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow; 
but,  when  we're  alone,  for  Heaven's  sake  let's  be  comfortable. 
"Why,  when  I  was  staying  with  Simplicitas,  we  had  the  Prince 
there,  and  nothing  could  have  been  more  regal  than  the  way 
everything  was  done ;  and  the  night  they  all  left,  the  duke 
and  duchess  and  I  dined  in  a  little  nutshell  of  a  room,  with 
two  maid-servants  to  wait  u]  on  us.  I  haven't  told  the  gov- 
ernor that  yet,  but  I  will  tc-night." 

"  Now,  my  dear  Loy,   what   is  the   use  of  vexing   your 


NOT  TOLD  BY  DIANA.  143 

father?"  pleads  Lady  Montagu.  "You  know  nothing  will 
alter  him." 

"  I  hate  the  very  sight  of  those  long-legged  cringing  fools," 
pursues  Captain  Montagu,  disgustedly.  "  I've  done  my  best 
to  make  them  enlist.  I've  tried  to  inspire  them  with  a  desire 
for  martial  glory.  I've  dimly  hinted  at  the  becomingness 
of  a  scarlet  coat  and  its  attractions  in  the  eyes  of  the  fair. 
I've  tried  to  shame  them  out  of  their  present  ignoble  life  ;  but 
not  a  bit  of  it !     The  governor  caught  me  at  it  one  day. 

"  '  And  pray,  sir,'  he  remarked,  in  that  agreeable  tone  which 
he  has  made  peculiarly  his  own, — '  and  pray,  sir'  (mimicking 
the  baronet's  pompous,  sneering  voice),  '  what  the  devil  do 
you  mean  by  trying  to  corrupt  my  servants  ?' 

"  '  Surely,  sir,'  I  replied,  meekly,  '  you  don't  call  it  corrup- 
tion to  wish  to  make  them  defenders  of  their  country.  We're 
very  badly  off  for  recruits.' 

" '  Country  be  hanged,  sir !  and  pray  what  the  deuce  are 
the  old  county  families  to  do  for  footmen  ?  Make  them  sol- 
diers, indeed !  A  parcel  of  dissolute,  lazy,  good-for-nothing 
fellows, — that's  what  you  Guardsmen  are !  I'll  trouble  you, 
sir,  to  seek  recruits  elsewhere,  and  not  tamper  with  my  house- 
hold !' 

"  Poor  little  mother !"  says  Charlie,  resuming  his  own  lazy 
caressing  tones  and  looking  at  his  mother,  "  what  a  time  you 
must  have  had  of  it  all  these  years !  Tell  me"  (confiden- 
tially), "  what  on  earth  made  you  marry  the  governor?" 

Lady  Montagu  looks  back  in  her  son's  face  with  that  idola- 
trous expression' with  which  mothers  are  wont  to  regard  their 
handsome  offspring.  "  I  don't  know,  my  dear :  we  have 
always  got  on  very  well  together.  It  is  only  your  father's 
way,  and,  besides"  (smiling),  "  if  I  had  not  married  him  you 
would  not  be  hero  now." 

"  And  that  would  have  been  a  great  loss,  little  mother, 
wouldn't  it?"  he  says,  kissing  her  hand.     "Thank  Heaven, 


144  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

Hector  inherited  all  the  governor's  amiable  qualities  and  left 
none  for  me.  'Pen  my  soul,  mother,  he'll  be  the  old  gentle- 
man's very  duplicate;  and  the  next  Lady  Montagu,  unless 
she  has  plenty  of  spirit,  will  share  your  fate." 

"  But,  my  dear,  you  see  I  have  survived  it,"  is  the  answer; 
and  the  pair  stroll  out  together  into  the  garden,  Lady  Montagu 
supremely  happy  as  she  leans  on  the  arm  of  her  handsome 
son.     After  all,  there  is  compensation  in  almost  everything. 

But  to  come  back  from  our  wandering.  It  is  the  day  of 
the  two  sons'  return  from  Warrington  Hall,  and  they  are 
dining  with  their  parents  in  the  usual  state.  Dinner  over, 
the  conversation  foils  on  their  visit,  and  the  party  staying  in 
the  house. 

"  Mr.  Carew's  son  and  daughter  were  there,"  says  Hector, 
after  having  enumerated  the  rest  of  the  company. 

"  Is  it  possible,"  remarks  Lady  Montagu,  "  that  those 
children  can  be  grown  up?  Why,  it  seems  only  the  other 
day " 

"  Everything  seems  only  the  other  day  with  you,  my  lady," 
interrupts  Sir  Hector's  cold  snarl.  "  I  should  have  thought 
your  looking-glass  might  occasionally  remind  you  of  the  flight 
of  time." 

"  The  boy  is  still  at  Eton,"  says  Hector,  "  and  Miss  Carew 
is  just  eighteen,  and  a  very  charming  girl,"  he  adds,  a  slight 
flush  deepening  his  bronzed  cheek.  "  I  think,  mother,  it 
would  be  kind  of  you  to  call  upon  her." 

"  Indeed  I  will,"  she  responds,  "  if"  (looking  diffidently  at 
her  tyrant),  "  if  your  father " 

Sir  Hector  sips  his  port  and  pretends  not  to  hear. 

"  I  have  heard  that  our  family  and  the  Carews  were  on 
the  most  intimate  terms, — before  their  misfortunes,"  pursues 
Hector,  in  a  tone  that  has  some  faint,  though  very  fliint,  re- 
semblance to  his  father's. 

"  It  is  high  time  intimacy  should  cease  when  people  forget 


NOT  TOLD   BY  DIANA.  145 

their  position  and  make  infernal  fools  of  themselves,"  says  the 
baronet,  agreeably.  "  However,  it  was  Carew  who  dropped 
his  friends  in  this  case,  as  it  happens,  not  they  who  dropped 
him." 

"  And  is  she  pretty  ?"  asks  my  lady,  appealing  to  her  younger 
son. 

"  Yes,  she  is,"  he  replies,  meditatively,  "  decidedly  pretty  ; 
quite  unformed,  of  course." 

"  Fortunately^''  interposes  Hector,  with  emphasis'. 

"  C'est  sdonT  retorts  Captain  Montagu;  (then,  mischiev- 
ously) ''  it's  quite  on  the  cards,  mother,  that  you  may  have  the 
fair  Diana  for  a  daughter-in-law." 

"  What !"  cries  Sir  Hector,  whilst  my  lady  looks  from  one 
to  the  other  of  her  sons.  Hector  darts  an  angry  glance  at  his 
brother,  who,  nothing  daunted,  proceeds,  laughing,  "  He  is  of 
age:  ask  him;  let  him  speak  for  himself." 

"  H'm  !"  says  the  baronet,  "  I  thought  you  were  speaking 
for  yonr^fM.  A  man  without  a  shilling  but  his  debts  gen- 
erally selects  a  penniless  bride.  I  am  not  at  all  afraid  of 
Hector  making  an  ass  of  himself." 

There  is  a  slight  working  of  Hector's  features  as  he  re- 
marks, very  coldly, — 

"  It  is  taking  a  great  liberty  with  Miss  Carew's  name  to 
couple  it  with  any  man's  at  present.  At  the  same  time" 
(looking  steadily  at  his  father),  "  if  I  ever  do  marry,  the  last 
thing  I  shall  look  for  in  my  wife  will  be  a  fortune." 

"Do  you  already,  then,  fancy  yourself  in  my  shoes?" 
sneers  Sir  Hector. 

"  My  income  is  quite  sufficient  to  share  with  a  woman  who 
has  not  extravagant  tastes,"  retorts  Hector,  in  a  cold,  defiant 
tone. 

"Oh,  in  that  case,  my  lady,"  says  the  baronet,  with  bland 
sarcasm,  "  pray  lose  no  time  in  calling  on  the  young  lady  and 
introducing  her  as  your  successor." 
G  13 


146  -^''0^   ^1    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

Sir  Hector  has  the  best  of  it :  his  heir  loses  his  temper, 
and,  for  fear  of  showing  it,  beats  a  hasty  retreat. 

"Were  you  really  serious,  Charlie?"  asks  his  mother, 
anxiously. 

"  Yes, — no, — I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  he  answers,  yawn- 
ing :  "  it's  such  a  confounded  bore  to  have  to  weigh  every 
word.     I  think  Mrs.  Warrington  was  trying  to  work  it." 

"  Very  good  of  her,  I'm  sure  !"  says  Sir  Hector,  dryly. 

"  I  cannot  think  how  people  can  be  so  officious,"  exclaims 
bis  wife,  with  more  show  of  resentment  than  is  habitual  to 
her.     "  It  is  not  kind  of  Mrs.  Warrington." 

"  My  dear  mother,  pray  don't  agitate  yourself.  Mrs.  War- 
ring'ton  did  nothing :  what  could  she  do  ? — what  could  any 
one  do  with  Hector  if  he  did  not  choose  ?  Besides,  the 
Carews  are  as  good  as  we  are,  and  she  is  quite  a  charming 
girl ;  but,  enfre  nous,  whatever  Hector  may  feel  for  her,  I  do 
not  fancy  she  reciprocates  in  the  very  least." 

"  Indeed,  Charlie,"  says  his  mother,  bridling  a  little,  "  I 
think  Hector  is  not  at  all  likely  to  meet  with  a  rebuff  in  any 
quarter  where  he  offisred  his  attentions." 

"  I  should  be  sorry  for  him  to  ask  her  on  the  chance  of  her 
refusing,"  snarls  Sir  Hector ;  and  there  the  conversation 
drops. 

The  next  morning  Lady  Montagu  received  a  visit  from  her 
eldest  son  in  her  boudoir. 

''Mother,"  he  commenced,  abruptly,  "I  was  very  much 
annoyed  at  what  Charlie  said  last  night  about  Miss  Carew,  but 
all  the  same  I  shall  be  very  glad  indeed  if  you  will  go  and 
call  on  her ;  and,  mother"  (taking  a  turn  up  and  down  the 
room),  "  could  you  not  ask  her  over  here  to  stay  ?" 

If  Charlie  is  her  favorite.  Lady  Montagu  has  a  very  sincere 
affection  for  her  elder  son  ;  so  she  replies,  looking  anxiously 
at  him, — 

"  Certainly,  my  dear  ;  I  will  do  anything  you  wish  (if  your 


NOT   TOLD   BY  DIANA.  147 

father  does  not  object).  But  have  you  really,  seriously  any 
idea  of  Miss  Carew  ?" 

"  My  dear  mother"  (impatiently),  "  why  want  to  jump  to 
conclusions?  She  is  a  very  charming,  unaffected,  lady-like 
girl,  and  I  should  like  to  see  mofe  of  her.  Besides"  (lower- 
ing his  voice),  "  there  are  two  parties  to  a  contract,  and, 
though  I  might  be  ever  so  much  in  love  with  her,  it  does  not 
follow  that  she  should  care  for  me ;  rather  the  other  way. 
Mother"  (stopping  suddenly  in  his  walk  and  confronting  her), 
"  I'm  afraid  I'm  not  a  very  taking  sort  of  fellow  :  am  I  ?  I 
frighten  people  even  when  I  want  to  be  most  kind ;  even  you, 
poor  mother"  (taking  her  hand),  "  are  not  quite  at  ease  with 
me.  There's  Charlie,"  he  continues,  dropping  her  hand 
gently,  and  resuming  his  walk  up  and  down :  "  he  has  only 
to  smile  at  you  women  in  his  sweet  languid  way"  (with  rising 
passion),  "  and  you  all  adore  him  and  would  do  anything  for 
him,  and  we,  we  miserable  dogs  who  haven't  had  the  luck  to 
be  born  with  pretty  faces  and  soft  manners, — we  who  would 
lay  down  our  lives  for  you  and  sacrifice  anything  on  earth  to 
make  you  happy, — we  only  inspire  you  with  fear  and  shrink- 
ing !  Poor  mother  !"  (stopping  suddenly,  his  voice  subsiding 
from  the  harshness  of  violent  emotion  to  extreme  tenderness, 
as  though  he  were  talking  to  some  little  child)  ;  "  why,  I 
have  quite  scared  you.  You  didn't  think  I  was  such  a  violent, 
blustering  fellow  :  did  you  ?  Come  ;  it's  over  now.  I  don't 
know  what  possessed  me.  Well,  you  will  do  as  I  ask  you, 
won't  you  ?  And  now  I  must  go  over  to  Willington  about 
that  stupid  business  of  Cartwright's.  Good-by,  mother  dear  !" 
And  he  goes. 

Lady  Montagu  sighs  as  the  door  closes ;  she  has  a  vague 
feeling  that  she  ought  to  understand  her  eldest  son  better, — ■ 
that  there  is,  after  all,  something  behind  that  chill  surface  that 
a  mother's  heart  ought  to  read ;  but  the  momentary  intelli- 


148  FOR   A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

gcnoc  soon  slumbers  again.  It  leaves  one  strong  impression, 
though,  and  that  is,  that  Miss  Carew  is  something  more  to 
liim  tlian  any  other  daughter  of  Eve  has  been  before. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

NOT   TOLD   BY   DIANA. 


As  Hector  Montagu  drove  his  handsome  brown  mare  into 
Willington,  his  thoughts  ran  very  little  on  "  that  stupid  busi- 
ness of  Cartwright's."  He  could  not  help  wondering  to  him- 
self at  the  emotion  into  which  he  had  been  betrayed  before 
his  mother,  and  the  remembrance  of  it  vexed  him.  But  after 
the  mare  had  trotted  two  or  three  miles  along  the  road  to 
Willington  that  memory  began  to  fade  from  his  mind,  and 
another  to  take  its  place.  The  picture  of  Diana  rose  before 
him.  What  a  witchery  she  was  beginning  to  exercise  over 
him !  Diana,  with  great  eyes,  a  soft  voice,  rippling  brown 
hair,  and  red  lips,  was  as  clear  in  his  mental  vision  as  though 
she  stood  there  before  him :  he  could  see  her  face  flashing 
with  laughter  or  petulance,  and  the  honest  love  shining  in  her 
pycs  when  they  rested  even  for  a  moment  on  her  brother. 
She  was  the  incarnation  of  his  idea  of  what  a  girl  should  be 
— pure,  modest,  bright,  aiFectionate,  full  of  sweet  sympathy 
and  kindliness.  He  was  not  one  of  the  men  who  "  went  in 
for  married  women,"  whom  "  girls  bored."  Compare  her  with 
Lady  Gwyncth  or  jNIrs.  Huntingdon  !  as  well  put  side  by  side 
an  angel  with  the  heroine  of  a  bad  French  novel.!  The?/ 
dare  to  sneer  at  her  and  call  her  forward  and  mock-modest ! 
Involuntarily  Hector  gave  the  reins  such  a  grip  that  the  mare 
started  off  with  an  iudi<>nant  bound. 


NOT  TOLD  BY  DIANA.  149 

"  Soho  !  gently,  old  lady  :  what's  the  matter  ?"  he  said, 
soothingly ;  and,  as  she  settled  down  again,  his  thoughts  flew 
back  to  Diana.  She  ever  become  a  fashionable  woman !  She 
marry  for  money  !  She  be  false  to  her  husband,  her  pure 
mind  come  down  to  find  immoral  plays  piquant  and  impure 
romances  stimulating  !  "  Never  1  never  !"  he  muttered,  half 
aloud,  in  his  energetic  defense  of  her,  again  forgetting  the 
brown  mare's  mettle.  Decidedly  there  must  be  some  very 
potent  influence  at  work  to  rouse  Hector  Montagu  after  this 
fashion.  "  What  I  would  give  to  make  that  girl  love  me  I" 
he  cried  to  himself,  passionately.  "  If  I  could  but  win  her, 
I  would  vialce  her  love  me  !"  he  told  himself,  with  that  stupid 
reasoning,  or  rather  unreasoning,  which  men  always  use  at 
such  times.  He  saw  her  bright  face  about  the  old  Court, — 
saw  her  lovable  tender  ways  with  his  mother, — saw  even  his 
father  relax  and  soften  under  her  dear  influence, — saw  a 
thousand  sweet  things  such  as  men  picture  to  themselves  ; 
nay,  he  even  felt  her  soft  arms  about  his  neck  ;  and  his  heart 
beat  and  his  breath  came  quicker.  Then  the  sound  of  the 
horse's  hoofs  on  the  pavement  brought  him  back  with  a  rude 
shock  to  earth,  and  he  remembered  that  he  was  in  Willington, 
and  had  to  see  to  "  that  business  of  Cartwright's." 

Hector  had  certain  notions  about  women,  notions  that  are 
considered  curious  and  old-fashioned  by  most  of  the  world 
nowadays.  He  was  not  particularly  virtuous  or  moral  him- 
self: if  he  had  been,  want  of  knowledge  might  perhaps  have 
made  his  idea  of  what  a  lady  ought  to  be  less  rigid :  he  in- 
sisted upon  the  widest  line  of  demarkation  between  a  virtuous 
woman  and  her  frailer  sisters  ;  "there  must  be  both,"  he  said, 
"but  let  it  not  be  in  the  power  of  any  human  being  to  mistace 
one  for  the  other."  He  did  not  scruple  to  make  his  views 
public :  so,  although  he  was  an  undeniable  parti,  there  were 
not  found  many  damsels  enterprising  enough  to  aspire  to  the 
chatelaineship  of  Alford  Court. 
13* 


150  I^OR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"  Flgnre.-toi,  ma  chere"  cried  little  Lady  Georgy  Wild  to 
her  sister  the  Countess  of  Newmarket.  "  I  devoted  all  yester- 
day afternoon  at  Holland  House  to  that  bear  Montagu;  I  tried 
to  draw  him  out ;  and  what  do  you  think  he  said  ?  He  had 
the  impertinence  to  tell  me  that  this  was  a  most  unfortunate 
age  for  girls  to  live  in ;  that  the  atmosphere  of  society  was 
frightfully  unwholesome, — the  haute  societe  in  particular;  that 
if  we  only  knew  what  really  pleased  men,  and  wished  for  their 
respect,  we  should  adopt  a  very  different  course  from  our  present 
style  and  behavior  ;  und  so  weifer.  What  a  heavenly  time 
the  future  Lady  Montagu  will  have  !  She  is  not  to  go  to 
races,  nor  drive  ponies  in  London,  nor  see  French  plays,  nor 
read  French  novels, — oh,  and  fifty  other  things.  Don't  you 
pity  her,  Gwen  ?" 

"  He  must  marry  the  rector's  daughter  and  keep  her  shut 
up  in  the  country.  From  all  I've  heard,  though,  he  isn't 
such  a  saint  himself." 

" So  I  told  him !"  laughed  Georgy.  " Oh,  my  dear!  if  you 
could  only  have  seen  his  fixce !  I  was  bent  on  shocking  him, 
for  the  fun  of  the  thing :  so  I  told  him  that  the  very  first 
place  I  meant  to  go  to  after  I  was  married  was  Cremorne." 

"  Well,  and  what  did  he  say  ?" 

"  He  made  me  a  polite  bow,  and  remarked  that,  with  my 
pi'oclivities,  it  must  be  very  contrariant  for  me  to  have  been 
born  in  my  present  sphere." 

"  I  think,  my  dear,  you  had  rather  the  worst  of  that 
encounter,"  observed  Lady  Newmarket,  dryly. 

"  That  business  of  Cartwright's"  brought  Mr.  Montagu 
down  from  the  ideal  to  the  real,  and,  as  he  drove  homewards, 
his  thoughts  took  a  more  practical  turn.  Did  Diana  like  him? 
— was  there  any  ground  for  hoping  that  she  ever  would  ?  He 
could  not  answer  this  at  the  same  time  satisfactorily  and  truth- 
fully. But  then  circumstances  had  been  against  him.  She 
was  out  for  the  first  time,  was  a  little  dazzled  by  the  silly, 


NOT  TOLD   BY  DIANA.  151 

supferficial  attentions  of  men  who  meant  nothing  (he  could  not 
bear  to  think  of  his  brother  individually  in  connection  with 
Diana).  When  he  had  her  to  himself  (as  he  would  have  if 
she  came  to  the  Court,  for  he  did  not  mean  his  mother  to  ask 
hei'  until  Charlie  was  gone  back  to  town),  when  he  could 
lavish  all  his  kindness  and  care  upon  her  undeterred  by  the 
presence  of  others,  uninfluenced  by  the  feelings  of  jealousy 
that  had  made  his  manner  seem  cold  and  severe  to  her, — when 
she  saw  all  the  desirable  things  at  Alford, — yes,  in  spite  of  his 
refusing  a  little  while  since  to  believe  in  her  being  influenced 
by  sordid  views,  he  was  not  above  appreciating  the  aid  of  these 
auxiliary  circumstances  in  his  own  case:  things  would  be  differ- 
ent. Why  should  he  not  win  her  ?  he  was  not  rejiulsive ;  if 
he  was  stiff"  and  severe  to  others,  he  would  be  tender  and 
gentle  with  her.  She  had  few  opportunities  of  seeing  other 
men ;  why  should  he  not  win  her !  As  he  drove  under  the 
grand  old  gateway  on  reaching  home,  he  told  himself  between 
his  clinched  teeth  that  he  would.  " 

It  has  been  the  fate  of  few  people  to  be  more  misunderstood 
than  Hector  Montagu.  People  said  he  was  "  so  like  his 
father."  He  knew  they  said  so,  and  it  drove  him  wild:  more- 
over, it  was  not  true.  Like  in  feature  he  certainly  was;  some 
likeness  there  was  too  in  manner;  but  his  cold  proud  demeanor 
was  caused  by  the  workings  of  a  shy  sensitive  nature  thrown 
back  upon  itself,  not  the  haughty  domineering  spirit  of  Sir 
Hector.  His  cynicism  was  in  reality  but  skin-deep,  though 
the  world,  with  its  usual  want  of  discernment,  believed  it  of 
far  deeper  root. 

"  Nay,  the  world,  the  world, 
All  ear  and  eye,  with  such  a  stupid  heart 
To  interpret  ear  and  eye,  and  such  a  tongue 
To  blare  its  own  interpretation." 

Oh,  what  a  difference  in  life  does  that  outer  shell  make  to 
us  which  we  are  constantly  reminded  is  so  perishable !     A 


152  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

winsome  face,  a  pleasant  trick  of  speech  and  manner,  and  the 
world's  favorable  verdict  is  ours  at  once,  an  accepted  bill  pay- 
able at  sight ;  but  lacking  these  happy  attributes  how  must 
we  struggle  up-hill  into  its  favor !  Hector's  greatest  misfor- 
tune was  his  resemblance  to  his  father ;  because  he  had  the 
same  features,  the  same  voice,  and  something  of  the  same 
manner,  he  was  accredited  with  his  father's  disposition.  Even 
his  own  mother  did  not  understand  him.  She  never  guessed 
how  the  partiality  she  had  unconsciously  shown  the  younger 
from  childhood  had  rankled  in  the  elder's  breast.  Charlie 
rushed  to  her  arms  with  his  bright  joyous  face,  trampling  her 
gown,  tearing  her  lace,  to  ask  for  some  toy  or  treat  only  too 
readily  accorded ;  whilst  Hector  stood  aloof,  shy,  proud,  hurt, 
craving  nothing  but  to  fee!  his  mother's  arms  round  him  and 
to  be  quite  sure  she  loved  him,  even  him  also.  Charlie's  glib 
tongue  could  ask  for  sweets  and  kisses.  Hector,  shy  and 
yearning,  waited  until  they  were  oiFered  him,  and  often  Avaited 
n  vain. 

So  he  grew  up,  always  seeing  his  brother  preferred  before 
him,  and  always  uttering  in  his  heart  an  indignant  protest 
against  the  injustice  dealt  him.  Small  wonder  that,  child, 
boy,  man,  perpetually  feeling  his  birthright  wrested  from  him, 
he  should  become  bitter  and  disappointed.  His  features  lent 
themselves  more  naturally  to  a  grave  than  a  gay  expression ; 
he  could  not  even  assume  at  will  the  genial  smile  his  father 
wore  in  society  when  he  chose  to  unbend.  Perhaps  he  would 
not :  he  hated  that  lying  semblance  of  bonhomie  more  than 
Sir  Hector's  direst  frown.  He  did  not  fear  his  father:  if  he 
yielded  him  the  outward  respect  which  his  own  sense  of  pro- 
priety told  him  was  due  from  son  to  father,  he  despised  him 
in  his  heart.  His  soul  revolted  against  petty  tyrannies  exer- 
cised on  the  weak,  against  the  selfish  overbearing  spirit  that 
delighted  to  crush  every  independent  thought  in  the  breasts 
of  those  over  whom  he  ruled.     He  heard  his  father  once  flat- 


NOT    TOLD  BY  DIANA.  153 

teringly  described  as  a  fine  specimen  of  the  old  Tory  scliool ; 
upon  which  he  reflected  to  himself,  "  I  always  thought  my 
principles  were  Conservative ;  but,  if  he  is  a  fine  specimen  of 
my  party,  I  would  rather  yell  with  the  mob  and  help  pull  down 
the  Park  railings." 

Mr.  Montagu  had  a  fine  scorn  for  meanness  and  time-serving- 
ncss,  and  poured  it  unsparingly  on  those  who  to  his  mind  de- 
served it.  He  was  true,  honest,  straightforward ;  but  these 
qualities  did  not  atone  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  for  his  want 
of  tact  and  his  cold  manner. 

And  yet  there  was  one  woman  who  understood  and  felt  for 
and  had  kind  thoughts  of  him, — a  woman,  too,  who  was  all 
that  his  stern  code  required  of  her  sex.  Nay,  in  her  gentle 
heart  Claire  Fane  loved  and  esteemed  him  as  she  had  never, 
would  never  do  another  man.  And  he  might  have  been  so 
happy  with  her.  But  Hector  did  not  see  this ;  .perhaps  he 
would  not. 

Once  his  mother  said  to  him,  "  Why  do  you  not  marry 
Claire  ?  I  should  love  to  have  her  for  a  daughter,  and  she  is 
all  even  you  could  desire  in  a  wife." 

Hector  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"  I  marry  Claire  ?  What  an  idea,  mother  !  Do  men  ever 
marry  the  woman  they  have  grown  up  from  childhood  with  ? 
We  look  upon  each  other  as  brother  and  sister.  I  shall  never 
marry." 

He  thought  so  then.     But  now  it  was  different. 


a* 


154  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

NOT   TOLD   BY   DIANA. 

Two  (lays  passed.  Hector  felt  strangely  irritable  and  un- 
settled,— Hector,  who  was  usually  so  cold  and  quiet,  never  in 
a  hurry  about  aiiythiiip;.  He  longed  for  his  brother  to  go  ;  he 
could  do  nothing  towards  seeing  Diana  again  until  Charlie  was 
out  of  the  way:  though  he  would  not  acknowledge  it  to  him- 
self, he  was  bitterly  jealous  of  him. 

On  the  evening  of  the  second  day  Mr.  Montagu  had  an 
inspiration.  He  would  drive  over  the  next  day  and  bring 
Curly  back  to  Alford  for  a  day's  hunting ;  he  did  not  care 
much  for  boys  as  a  rule,  but  this  one  seemed  a  nice  sort  of 
lad,  and  he  could  talk  to  him  about  his  sister,  and  then  of 
course  he  should  see  Diana  when  he  drove  over.  He  would 
ask  his  father  about  it  next  morning  at  breakfast,  and  be  oif 
before  Charlie  was  down.  Sir  Hector  always  cliose  to  be 
asked  if  any  one  might  be  invited,  or  took  good  care  to  show 
the  guest  that  he  had  not  come' by  his  invitation. 

The  baronet  was  in  anything  but  an  amiable  humor  in  the 
morning:  the  post  had  brought  him  rather  an  impertinent 
letter  from  a  tenant,  with  whom,  however,  he  did  not  care  to 
quarrel. 

llemarkable  to  relate,  cool,  collected  Hector  was  a  little 
nervous. 

"  I'm  going  over  to  call  on  the  Carews  this  morning,  sir," 
he  said,  as  he  came  in  (having  conned  his  words  all  the  time 
he  was  dressing,  and  trying  to  assume  an  off-hand  manner 
which  was  not  natural  to  him,  and  therefore  enou"!!  in  itself 


NOT  TOLD   BY  DIANA.  155 

to  excite  suspicion).  "  I  suppose  you  have  no  objection  to 
my  bringing  the  boy  back  with  me  ?" 

"Hey!  what?"  cried  Sir  Hector,  snappishly,  bending  his 
brows  ;  "  what  do  you  want  with  boys  here  ?  Not  much  in 
your  line,  I  should  say." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  object  to  my  asking  him?"  said 
Hector,  looking  rather  dark. 

"Ask  the  devil  if  you  like,  sir,"  retorted  the  baronet,  an- 
grily ;  "  but  just  tell  him  to  leave  his  d d  tops  and  mar- 
bles at  home.  My  lady"  (turning  furiously  upon  his  unhappy 
spouse),  "  this  tea  is  no  better  than  hog's-wash,  the  toast  is  as 
hard  as  a  brick-bat,  and  the  kidneys  tough  as  leather.  If  you 
think  I  pay  your  fine  lady  of  a  cook  sixty  guineas  a  year  to 
send  me  up  a  breakfast  that  would  be  a  disgrace  to  the  scul- 
lery-maid, I  can  tell  you  you're  very  much  mistaken.  And 
I'll  thank  you  to  tell  her  so  this  very  morning." 

"  Shall  I  have  some  more  made  ?"  says  Lady  Montagu, 
submissively. 

"  Two  makings  of  tea  for  three  persons !"  growls  her  lord, 
furiously  :  "  there's  no  end  to  the  extravagance  in  this  house. 
You  seem  to  think,  my  lady,  that  I  have  the  fortune  of  a  re- 
tired iron-master  or  linen-draper,  and  that  the  servants  may  be 
allowed  to  waste  things  just  as  they  like.  If  you  looked  after 
things  a  little,  instead  of  loitering  about  with  a  parcel  of  ti'ashy 
worsted-work  all  day  long,  I  might  have  a  little  more  comfort 
perhaps  in  my  home.  As  it  is,  I  have  had  an  infernal  bad 
brcakflist,  and  I'm  very  much  indebted  to  you  for  it." 

Saying  which.  Sir  Hector  rises  angrily,  and  goes  out,  slam- 
ming the  door  after  him.  The  tears  stand  in  poor  Lady 
Montagu's  eyes. 

"Dear  me!"  she  says,  nervously,  "now  your  father  is 
vexed  again.  I  don't  really  notice  much  the  matter  with  the 
breakfost :  do  you,  Hector?  And  if  the  kidneys  arc  tough, 
there  are  plenty  of  other  things  on  the  table." 


15G  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"  Why,  mother,"  answers  Hector,  "  don't  you  know  the 
signs  of  the  times  yet?  The  tea  is  capital ;  so  are  the  kid- 
neys ;  but  lie  has  had  a  letter  he  does  not  like,  and  you  are 
the  scapegoat,  as  usual." 

"  So  you  are  going  over  to  the  Carews  ?  Had  you  not 
better  take  a  message  from  me  ?" 

"Thanks,"  says  her  son,  taking  her  hand, — an  unusual 
demonstration  for  him  ;  "  or,  mother,  would  you  mind  writing 
a  line  to  say  you  hope  to  go  over  and  call  when  the  days  are 
a  little  longer  ?" 

Lady  Montagu  does  as  she  is  told  obediently,  and  half  an 
hour  later  Hector  is  on  the  way  to  Carew  Court.  It  is  a  crisp, 
frosty  morning  ;  the  roads  are  dry  and  hard,  and  the  horse's 
hoofs  make  a  sharp  ringing  sound  as  they  beat  the  ground 
with  a  quick  regular  tread.  The  January  sun  shines  with 
what  force  he  can  this  wintry  month,  and  to  Hector  everything 
seems  cheery  and  exhilarating.  He  has  liked  women  before 
to-day,  has  even  fancied  himself  in  love;  but  never,  never 
until  now  has  he  felt  that  keen  longing  for  the  sight  of  a  face 
that  has  possessed  him  these  three  days.  It  is  not  likely  she 
will  be  absent  from  home,  but,  if  she  should  be,  he  feels  the 
disappointment  will  be  almost  greater  than  he  can  bear.  Prob- 
ably he  conveys  his  impatience  through  his  finger-tips  to  the 
brown  mare's  sensitive  mouth,  for,  nothing  loath,  she  flies  over 
the  crisp  road,  and  when  Hector  draws  rein  at  Carew  Court 
he  finds  it  is  only  an  hour  and  thirty-five  minutes  since  he 
started.  His  groom,  who  wears  the  mask  of  stolid  impene- 
tral)ility  which  becomes  a  good  'Servant,  has  nevertheless  been 
speculating  as  to  the  cause  of  this  hot  and  unusual  haste  of  his 
master ;  but  when  he  sees  a  pretty  young  lady  with  a  blushing 
face  and  smiling  brown  eyes  come  forward,  measure  in  hand 
from  which  she  is  feeding  her  poultry,  and  welcome  Mr.  Mon- 
tagu, who  jumps  down  with  a  glad  bright  look  such  as  is  seldom 
seen  on  his  stern  face,  Jim  thinks  he  sees  his  way  to  it. 


NOT  TOLD  BY  DIANA.  157 

"  Oh,  how  d'ye  do,  Mr.  Montagu  ?  How  good  of  you  to 
come  and  see  us !"  cries  Diana,  looking,  as  she  really  feels, 
very  glad  to  see  him.  "  How  hot  your  poor  horse  is  !  What 
a  shame  to  drive  him  so  fast !  You  must  put  him  up,  and  I'll 
get  some  hay  and  corn  for  him."  And  at  this  juncture  Curly, 
who  has  heard  the  sound  of  wheels,  comes  rushing  out  and 
docs  the  honors  of  the  stables.  Neither  of  them  had  cared 
very  much  about  their  present  visitor  at  Warrington,  but  they 
have  both,  though  they  kept  it  bravely  to  themselves,  felt  a 
little  bit  moped  and  dull  since  their  return  home,  and  Mr. 
Montagu  seems  a  link  of  that  pleasant  past  which  they  look 
back  to  so  fondly.  There  is  another  reason,  too,  why  blush- 
ing Miss  Diana  feels  so  glad  to  see  him  ;  but,  oh,  if  it  could 
only  have  been  his  brother  1 

Hector — poor  fellow  ! — cannot  fathom  the  reason  of  her 
gladness,  but  he  can  see  that  she  is  glad,  and  takes  it  all 
joyfully  and  eagerly  to  himself.  He  is  quite  genial ;  he 
laughs,  he  shows  the  greatest  interest  in  all  her  pets,  insists 
on  being  introduced  to  the  dogs  and  cats  and  ferrets,  and 
seems  charmed,  as  he  is  for  her  sake,  with  everything  that  he 
sees. 

"  How  could  I  think  he  was  not  nice  ?"  Diana  says  to  her- 
self, reproachfully.  He  has  given  her  his  mother's  note,  the 
kindest  one  imaginable :  it  opens  a  vista  of  undreamed  joys 
before  her,  and  she  looks  upon  him  as  a  benefactor.  But  he 
is  not  the  fairy-prince  :  he  is  only  the  beneficent  genius  come 
to  conduct  her  to  him.     Poor  Hector  1 

Then  he  is  taken  into  the  house  and  introduced  to  Mr. 
Carew.  He  sees  a  dark,  handsome  man,  of  erect  and  stately 
bearing,  in  the  prime  of  life,  though  with  many  gray  hairs, 
and  a  worn  look  about  the  mouth  and  eyes.  His  manner  is 
polished  and  kindly,  if  a  shade  stiff  at  first,  but  Hector  goes 
forward  in  his  most  genial  manner,  and  the  two  men  take  to 
each  other  at  once.     Hector  chronicled  that  morning  after- 

14 


158  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

wards  as  the  happiest  he  had  ever  spent.  He  had  only  in- 
tended putting  the  mare  up  for  an  hour  and  taking  Curly  back 
with  him  to  lunch,  but  father  and  daughter  both  pressed  him 
so  hospitably  to  stay  that  he  retracted  his  faint  excuse  and 
consented,  nothing  loath,  though  he  stoutly  averred  that  he 
never  ate  lunch.  Miss  Diana  ran  to  Gay,  on  hospitable 
thoughts  intent. 

"  Gtiy,"  she  cried,  bursting  into  the  housekeeper's  room, 
"  Mr.  Montagu  is  going  to  stay  to  lunch." 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  what  ever  will  you  do  ?"  cries  Gay,  dis- 
mayed. 

"  He  won't  expect  much,"  returns  Diana,  "  and,  if  he  does, 
he  must  be  disappointed." 

"  But,  my  dear,"  remonstrates  Gay,  "  I'm  sure  if  things 
isn't  nice  your  pa  will  feel  hurt." 

"Well,  then,  he  sha'n't  feel  hurt.  We  have  a  chicken  in 
the  house, — isn't  it  lucky  I  had  it  killed  ! — and  some  neck  of 
mutton, — you  make  lovely  cutlets,  you  know,  Gay,  and — and 
a  milk  pudding ;  and  there's  a  lunch  fit  for  a  king." 

"Well  that  might  do,"  says  Gay,  taking  a  more  hopeful 
view  of  things;  "but  there's  that  Siilly:  she'll  go  and  spile 
all, — drop  all  the  things,  I  shouldn't  wonder,  and  make  a 
clatter  with  the  plates  which  is  sure  to  vex  your  pa." 

"  She  shall  not  come  in  at  all,"  answers  Diana,  promptly. 
"  Curly  says  it  is  the  proper  thing  to  wait  upon  yourselves  at 
lunch.  And,  Gay,  give  me  out  that  big  Dresden  vase  :  I  will 
fill  it  with  flowers  and  put  it  in  the  middle  of  the  table,  and 
we  shall  be  quite  smart." 

Hector,  talking  to  Mr.  Carew,  looks  out  of  the  window  and 
sees  a  slight  form  flitting  to  and  fro,  basket  in  hand,  snipping 
off"  chrysanthemums  with  a  ruthless  hand. 

"  I  think  Miss  Carew  wants  a  little  help,"  he  says,  dread- 
fully disconcerted  to  find  the  color  mounting  to  his  face. 
Miss  Carcw's  father  takes  the  hint. 


NOT   TOLD  BY  DIANA.  159 

"  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  go  into  the  garden,"  he  re- 
marks, rising,  and  opening  the  window.  After  Hector  has 
gone  out,  he  looks  thoughtfully  at  the  pair  in  the  distance. 

"  I  suppose  I  cannot  expect  to  keep  her  forever,  poor  little 
girl!"  he  is  thinking,  "and  Montagu  seems  a  good  sort  of 
fellow." 

"Do  let  me  help  you:  may  I?"  says  Hector,  when  he 
reaches  Diana,  as  if  he  was  asking  some  great  favor. 

"  You  may  hold  the  basket,"  she  answers,  beaming  a 
friendly  look  upon  liim  out  of  her  brown  eyes  as  she  hands 
him  the  basket.  "I  don't  care  a  bit  for  chrysanthemums: 
do  you?"  she  proceeds,  snipping  off  another:  "they  are  so 
dull  and  sober-looking.  Oh !"  (with  enthusiasm)  "  how 
happy  I  should  be  if  I  could  have  a  hot-house  full  of  roses 
and  geraniums  and  lovely  rare  flowers  like  Mrs.  Warrington ! 
I  love  flowers  in  the  summer,  but  I  love  them  ten  times  more 
in  the  wintei'." 

Hector  thinks  of  the  hot-houses  at  home,  thinks  how  easily 
they  may  be  hers,  with  all  other  desirable  things  that  he  pos- 
sesses or  will  possess,  if  she  only  deigns  to  accept  them :  he 
longs  to  tell  her  so,  but  feels  it  is  too  soon  yet.  So  he  only 
says,  eagerly,— 

"  We  have  plenty  at  home.  I  will  bring  you  over  baskets 
full.     May  I,  sometimes?" 

"  May  you?"  asks  Diana,  archly;  "  indeed  you  may.  But 
what  would  Lady  Montagu  say?" 

"  She  would  be  delighted,  of  course.  I  do  so  want  you  to 
know  her.  I  am  sure  you  will  like  her.  She  is  so  kind  and 
gentle.     And  /  know  she  will  love  you." 

"  It  is  very  rash  for  a  man  to  answer  for  women  liking 
each  other,"  laughs  Diana  ;  "  at  least  I  have  heard  so." 

"  How  can  they  help  it  when  they  are  both  sweet  and  kind 
and  good?"  answers  Hector,  warmly. 

"  How  do  you  know  I  am  kind  and  good  ?"  asks  Diana, 


IGO 


FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 


with  laughing  eyes.     "  I  think  you  found  me  anything  but 
that  at  Warrington :  wc  used  to  quarrel  rather." 

"  But  we  never  shall  again,"  he  says,  with  an  eagerness 
that  rather  abashes  her.  "I  am  not  really  such  a  disagreeable 
fellow  as  you  thought  me,  am  T?" 

"  I  think  you  are  very  nice,"  answers  Diana,  a  little  con- 
fused, but  wishing  to  be  polite. 

"  You  will  come  and  stay  with  my  mother,  will  you  not?' 
he  continues.     "And  then  I  hope  I  shall  make  you  think 
better  of  me  than  you  did  at  Warrington.     I  don't  think  I 
shine  very  much  in  society, — particularly"  (his  face  darken- 
ing) "  when  my  brother  is  there." 

Diana  stoops  to  gather  a  flower.  She  wants  to  hide  her 
face  for  fear  it  should  betray  her  disappointment.  Going  to 
Alford  docs  not  seem  very  tempting  if  Captain  Montagu  is 
not  to  be  there. 

Curly  is  radiant  with  delight  at  the  thought  of  his  visit : 
he  is  to  hunt  one  day,  shoot  the  next,  and  Mr.  Montagu  is  to 
bring  him  back  on  the  third.  He  was  not  quite  sure  at  first 
if  it  was  right  to  leave  his  father  and  Diana  now  that  he 
would  so  soon  be  going  back  to  Eton  ;  but  they  will  not  hear 
of  his  refusing. 

Diana  and  her  father  stand  at  the  door,  watching  them  ofi". 
The  la.st  adieux  have  been  waved,  they  are  out  of  sight  now, 
and  the  two  turn  to  go  into  the  house. 

"  What  a  fine  thing  it  is  to  be  young  and  to  have  life 
before  one  !"  says  Mr.  Carew,  with  a  smile  thai  is  yet  very  sad. 
Diana  puts  her  hand  through  her  father's  arm,  and  rubs 
her  cheek  against  his  shoulder.  She  does  not  feel  very  blithe, 
somehow,  although  whilst  their  visitor  was  with  them  she  had 
been  quite  gay  and  cheerful.  Curly  had  asked  the  question 
she  longed  yet  dared  not  to  put:  Was  Captain  Montagu  at 
Alford?  And  Hector  had  answered  in  the  aflarmative  and 
changed  the  subject  at  once.     Poor  Diana's  heart  has  gone 


NOT  TOLD   BY  DIANA.  161 

after  Curly,  who  is  to  have  the  unutterable  bliss  of  seeing  him 
so  soon  :  he  is  scarcely  gone,  and  she  is  longing  for  hina  to  be 
back,  that  she  may  ask  him  a  thousand  questions  about  her 
love.  She  cannot  get  him  out  of  her  poor  little  head,  nor 
home  nor  father  nor  pug  nor  kittens  can  fill  that  void  which 
has  lately  crept  into  her  heart.  What  though  she  knows  her 
love  is  hopeless  ? 

"  One  cannot  take  back  love  at  will." 

She  has  gone  with  her  father  into  his  study,  and  is  sitting 
looking  dreamily  out  of  window,  whilst  her  hands  lie  idle  iu 
her  lap. 

"  Montagu  seems  a  sterling  good  fellow,"  says  her  flither, 
breaking  in  upon  her  reverie. 

"  Yes,"  she  assents,  not  warmly,  nor  coldly,  but  in  the  same 
sort  of  tone  that  she  would  have  used  in  answer  to  the  propo- 
sition that  it  was  a  fine  day. 

"  I  am  glad  he  has  taken  to  Curly,"  proceeds  Mr.  Carew. 
"  I  am  glad  both  you  children  seem  to  be  making  friends.  If 
Lady  Montagu  invites  you  to  Alford,  you  must  go,  Di.  I 
don't  intend  to  keep  you  shut  up  here  forever." 

"What,  leave  you  again,  papa?"  says  Diana,  blushing  a 
little,  and  feeling  rather  guilty  as  in  her  secret  heart  she  can- 
not help  acknowledging  to  herself  that  she  longs  to  go  there. 

"  I  cannot  expect  you  to  stay  with  me  always,"  says  her 
father,  smiling,  "  and  it  will  be  good  for  me  to  get  broken  in 
to  losing  you  by  degrees." 

Mr.  Carew  had  taken  an  idea  into  his  head, — a  wrong  one, 
such  as  is  the  wont  of  fathers  with  regard  to  their  daughters. 
He  has  seen  that  Mr.  Montagu  has  a  great  regard  for  her,  and 
he  thinks  he  sees  that  it  is  reciprocated.  Was  she  not  evi- 
dently glad  to  see  him,  and  is  she  not  dull  now  he  is  gone? 
The  Montagus  are  a  good  old  family  ;  it  would  be  an  excellent 
match  for  Diana,  and  he  thinks  Hector  a  gentleman  and  a 

14* 


1G2  FOR   A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

very  nice  riolit-iiiiiidcd  sort  of  fellow.  Many  an  anxious 
thought  has  he  hail  about  Di's  future;  he  fancies  he  sees  his 
way  to  it  now,  and  feels  happier  than  he  has  done  for  many  a 
lonii'  day. 

The  appointed  days  of  Curly's  visit  dawdle  away ;  on  the 
third  he  comes  back,  radiant,  but  alone.  Just  as  Hector' was 
steitping  into  the  dog-cart  to  drive  him  home,  a  telegram  came 
whicli  obliged  him  to  go  to  London  by  the  two-o'clock  train. 
"  So  I  drove  myself,"  cries  Curly,  with  enthusiasm  ;  "  and,  by 
jingo  1  didn't  we  come  along  at  a  spanking  rate  just !  She  is 
a  clipper,  and  no  mistake,  that  brown  mare  of  his.  And  I've 
brought  no  end  of  game,  and  a  great  bouquet  for  you,  Di,  and 
Lady  Montagu  is  coming  over  next  week,  and  she  wants  you 
and  the  Dad  to  go  and  stay  as  soon  as  I  get  back  to  Eton. 
And  I'm  to  go  over  just  whenever  I  like,  and  they'll  always 
send  a  trap  for  me.  And  Charlie's  battalion  is  going  to  Wind- 
sor this  summer,  and  I'm  to  go  and  breakfast  with  him,  and 
we're  going  to  have  an  awful  lark  on  the  fourth  of  June." 

So  Curly  pours  forth  his  flood  of  news  with  a  radiant  face, 
and  his  audience  listen  eagerly. 

"  And  is  it  a  nice  place,  Curly  ?"  asks  Diana. 

"  I  should  think  it  is,  just,"  he  responds,  "  and  kept  in  such 
apple-pie  order.  He's  an  awful  old  Tartar  the  old  fellow, 
though  he  was  wonderfully  civil  to  me  ;  but  she  is  the  dearest, 
sweetest,  kindest,  prettiest  old  lady  I  ever  saw.  Charlie's  just 
like  her." 

"Is  Captain  Montagu  still  there?"  says  his  sister,  trying 
very  hard  to  speak  unconcernedly. 

"  He  goes  up  to  London  to-night ;  and  precious  glad  he  is 
to  go ;  he  can't  stand  home  for  long  at  a  time,  he  says ;  it's 
too  grand  for  him.  The  old  fellow  will  have  such  a  lot  of 
state  kept  up,  and  all  the  others  hate  it.  By  jingo  !  how  he 
does  bully  'em  all  round,  except  Hector,  and  he  won't  stand 
it.     He  can't  get  a  rise  out  of  Charlie,  neither,  for  he  does 


NOT  TOLD   BY  DIANA.  163 

the  languid  dodge  just  to  aggravate  the  old  fellow  ;  and  it  just 
does,  too.  Then  he  turns  round  upon  '  My  lady,'  and  abuses 
her  fur  everything  that  goes  wrong,  in  a  nasty,  sneering  tone, 
though  pretending  to  be  very  polite  all  the  time." 

"  Did  you  have  good  sport?"  asks  Mr.  Carew ;  and  Curly 
forthwith  launches  into  a  long  account  of  the  day's  hunt  and 
his  splendid  mount,  followed  by  the  fullest  details  of  the  next 
day's  shooting.  Diana  waits  patiently  until  she  can  get  him 
to  herself,  that  she  may  put  certain  questions  on  a  subject  of 
particular  interest.  As  she  is  dressing  for  dinner,  a  knock 
comes  at  the  door. 

"  Di,"  says  Curly,  putting  his  head  in,  "here's  a  note  from 
the  captain  I  forgot  to  give  you." 

Diana's  hand  trembles  so  she  can  scarcely  take  it  from  his 
outstretched  hand.  Luckily  for  her,  he  is  in  a  tremendous 
hurry  and  does  not  wait.  In  her  excitement  and  haste,  she 
can  scarcely  open  it:  she  has  a  strange  fluttering  at  her  heart, 
and  is  obliged  to  sit  down  before  she  can  read  it.  It  runs 
thus : 

"  My  dear  Miss  Carew, — 

"  Why  did  you  not  come  over  with  that  nice  brother  of 
yours  ?  I  have  done  notliing  but  wish  you  were  liere  ;  rather 
selfish  on  my  part,  for  it  is  about  the  slowest  house  to  stop  in 
I  know  of.  Having  had  a  great  deal  of  leisure  for  reflection, 
I've  been  thinking  over  all  the  good  advice  you  gave  me  (by 
the  way,  you  really  ought  to  have  given  Rexborough  a  chance, 
too),  and  the  result  is  that  I  have  made  no  end  of  good  reso- 
lutions. Among  others,  I  intend  to  retrench  in  some  of  my 
little  extravagances,  so  I  send  you  in  advance  somie  of  my  con- 
ten)plated  savings  for  your  poor  proteges  you  told  me  about 
who  have  to  dine  ofi"  dry  bread  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  It 
was  too  bad  of  that  solemn  brother  of  mine  to  steal  a  march 
upon  me  and  go  off  in  the  gray  of  early  dawn  to  call  at  Carew 


1G4  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

Court;  but  I  shall  be  even  with  hhu  some  day.  If  you  ever 
should  be  induced  to  visit  Fogy  Hall,  pray  send  me  a  line  to 
the  Guards'  Club,  Pall  Mall.  Meanwhile,  give  an  occasional 
pitying  thought  to  the  hapless  victim  who  is  sacrificing  all  to 
the  love  of  his  country. 

"  Yours  ever, 

"  C.  E.  Montagu." 


CHAPTER    XVII. 


DIANA  S    STORY. 


It  is  3Iay,  and  I  am  at  Alford.  ]My  visit,  which  was  to 
have  been  made  in  January,  had  to  be  deferred  in  consequence 
of  Lady  Montagu's  illness  :  she  has  had  bronchitis,  and  is  only 
just  returned  from  Hastings.  At  Easter,  papa,  Curly  and  I 
spent  a  week  with  the  Fanes.  A  wonderful  event, — papa 
being  begaiiled  from  home  :  however,  I  think  he  enjoyed  the 
change  thoroughly,  and  it  did  him  all  the  good  in  the  world. 
I  was  glad  he  went ;  he  seemed  quite  to  come  out  of  his  shell, 
and  was  so  bright,  so  genial  and  delightful,  that  I  am  sure  if 
I  had  been  any  one  but  his  daughter  I  should  have  fallen  in 
love  with  him.  He  took  an  immense  fancy  to  Claire,  and, 
but  that  she  is  so  dear  and  sweet  and  good,  I  could  almost 
have  found  it  in  my  heart  to  be  jealous  of  her.  It  was  a 
charming  week.  Colonel  Fane  was  kinder  than  ever ;  we  were 
the  only  visitors,  and  they  made  us  thoroughly  happy  and  at 
home.  I  have  grown  to  like  Hector  Montagu,  though  I  shall 
never  quite  get  over  my  awe  of  him.  All  through  the  winter 
he  used  to  come  over  frequently,  always  bringing  me  lovely 


DIANA'S  STORV.  165 

flowers  or  books  and  music, — anything  he  thought  I  should 
like.  Papa  has  taken  wonderfully  to  Mr.  Montagu,  and  seems 
to  like  to  speak  of  him  and  always  in  his  praise.  I  wonder 
if  he  would  like — the  other  one.  I  am  afraid  he  would  think 
him  frivolous.  But,  oh,  I  believe  in  my  heart  that  he  is  capa- 
ble of  better  things,  and  it  is  the  useless  idle  life  of  pleasure 
he  lives  that  makes  him  seem  what  he  does :  how  could  he 
have  those  kind  pleasant  ways  if  he  were  not  really  good  at 
heart  ?  How  nice  of  him  to  send  me  all  that  money  for  my 
poor  people !  I  took  care  to  tell  them  it  came  from  a  good, 
kind  gentleman,  and  they  blessed  him  with  tears  in  their  eyes. 
Those  blessings  must  do  him  some  good :  at  all  events,  I  like 
to  think  so. 

Papa  was  most  anxious  about  my  visit  to  Alford.  Here  I 
am  at  last.  They  pressed  him  very  hard  to  come,  but  he  ex- 
cused himself.  So  I  arrived  alone  the  day  before  yesterday. 
Mr.  Montagu  was  on  the  steps  to  receive  me,  and  gave  me 
such  a  hearty  welcome  that  I  felt  at  home  at  once.  Then  he 
carried  me  off  to  his  mother's  boudoir,  and  as  I  entered  she 
rose,  and,  taking  both  my  hands,  kissed  me,  and  said,  so 
sweetly  and  kindly,  how  glad  she  was  that  I  had  come  at  last, 
and  I  fell  in  love  with  her  on  the  spot.  My  eyes  grew  quite 
dim :  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  was  conscious  of  the  wish 
that  I  had  a  mother.  Presently  Sir  Hector  came  in,  and 
greeted  me  very  kindly,  and  I  thought  to  myself  that  he  had 
been  very  unduly  abused,  but  changed  my  mind  no  later  than 
that  very  evening.  It  is  a  grand  old  place,  but  there  is  more 
state  than  comfort  about  it,  except  in  Lady  Montagu's  boudoir, 
which  is  the  essence  of  cosiness.  Sir  Hector  said  contemptu- 
ously that  it  was  nothing  but  "  a  litter  of  untidy  trash  ;"  but 
I  do  not  agree  with  him.  I  take  care,  though,  to  be  very 
meek  and  modest  with  him,  and  not  to  venture  an  opinion 
unless  I  know  it  will  be  well  received.  I  am  terribly  afraid 
of  him :  my  awe  of  his  son  disappears  completely  in  his  pres- 


166  FOR   A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

ence,  and  I  look  upon  him  iis  a  friendly  power.  I  vexed  him 
quite  unintentionally  the  day  I  arrived.  I  can  understand  it 
now,  though  I  did  not  then.  It  was  soon  after  my  arrival.  Sir 
Hector,  having  had  a  little  pleasant  chat  with  me,  asking  kindly 
after  papa,  and  regretting  that  he  had  not  come,  went  out. 

"  flow  like  you  are  to  your  father  !"  I  remarked,  innocently, 
thinking  rather  that  I  was  paying  him  a  compliment,  for  Sir 
Hector  is  a  very  fine  old  man. 

The  color  flushed  into  his  face,  and  he  said,  looking  dread- 
fully hurt, — 

"  Do  not  you,  of  all  people,  say  that !"  Then,  as  I  looked 
and  felt  horribly  confused,  he  went  on,  trying  to  smile,  "  I 
dare  say  you  think  it  rather  a  compliment  now  ;  but  you  will 
soon  understand  why  I  do  not  consider  it  one." 

"  Hector  1  my  dear  Hector !"  cried  his  mother,  reproach- 
fully ;  but  he  laughed,  and  said, — 

"  My  mother,  like  all  good  women,  loves  her  tyrant,  and 
hugs  her  chains.  I  dare  say  you  would  too"  (looking  at  me 
keenly),  "  only  let  us  hope  a  better  fate  is  in  store  for  you." 

"  You  must  not  let  my  son  give  you  any  wrong  impres- 
sions," says  Lady  Montagu,  nervously  :  "  indeed,  he  should 
not  say  such  things.     Sir  Hector  is " 

"  I  was  wrong,  mother,"  he  answered.  "  I  ought  to  have 
left  Miss  Carew  to  draw  her  own  conclusions,  unprejudiced. 
I  should  have  done  so  if  she  had  not  greeted  me  with  the  re- 
mark that  never  fails  to  get  a  rise  out  of  me,  as  Curly  would 
say"  (looking  at  me  and  laughing). 

"  I  quite  fell  in  love  with  your  brother,"  utters  Lady  Mon- 
tagu, gently,  "  he  is  so  frank  and  open,  and  so  handsome. 
He  reminds  me  very  much  of  what  dear  Charlie  was  at  his 
age." 

"Will  you  not  like  to  see  your  room?"  Hector  breaks  in, 
abruptly,  much  to  my  chagrin,  just  as  the  dear  name  I  am 
longino;  to  hear  is  uttered. 


DIANA'S  STORY.  167 

A  tinge  of  pink  comes  into  his  mother's  pale  cheeks,  and 
she  darts  a  httle  nervous  glance  at  him,  evidently  thinking 
she  has  been  indiscreet. 

"  Yes,  you  will  like  to  take  your  hat  off,  will  you  not  ?  I 
ought  to  have  asked  you  before.  Hector,  please  ring  the  bell 
and  tell  them  to  send  Ford  to  Miss  Carew's  room." 

So  I  go,  feeling  a  little  bit  indignant  with  Mr.  Montagu. 

"  The  second  bell  rings  five  minutes  before  dinner,"  he 
whispers  :  "  be  sure  you  are  in  the  small  drawing-room  three 
minutes  after  it  sounds.     We  live  by  clock-work  here." 

I  do  not  fail  to  take  his  hint :  to  the  moment  indicated  I 
make  my  appearance.  Sir  Hector  is  thei'e,  standing  pom- 
pously in  front  of  the  fire ;  his  son  is  reading  the  "  Times" 
by  the  window.  There  is  still  faint  daylight.  Sir  Hector 
nods  approvingly  at  me  as  I  enter. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  possess  the  virtue  of  punctuality," 
he  says,  looking  at  me  over  his  big  white  neck-cloth  with  a 
patronizing  smile.  "  Nothing  to  be  done  without  it.  It  is 
the  one  thing  I  insist  upon." 

The  clock  chimes  the  half-hour :  simultaneously  the  gong 
sounds ;  simultaneously  the  door  opens,  and  the  butler,  enter- 
ing, smnounces, — 

"  Dinner  is  served.  Sir  Hector." 

My  host  extends  his  arm  to  me.  I  half  hesitate ;  Lady 
Montagu  is  not  there. 

"  /  never  wait  for  any  one,^^  says  Sir  Hector,  sternly,  and 
forthwith  conveys  me  to  the  dining-hall. 

On  the  way  we  meet  Lady  Montagu  hastening  to  the  draw- 
ing-room, and  clasping  a  bracelet  as  she  goes. 

"  I  had  no  idea  I  was  l.ate,"  she  says,  nei'vously. 

"  Lady  Montagu,"  says  her  husband,  addressing  me  in  a 
voice  audible  to  the  servants  as  well  as  to  herself, — "  Lady 
Mont;igu  has  brought  unpunctuality  to  a  science.  She  would 
unduiilitedly  have  been  one  of  the  five  foolish  virgins  of  the 


168  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

parable.  For  what  we  are  about  to  receive  may  the  Lord 
make  us  truly  thankful !  I  only  trust  to-day"  (speaking  to 
me  as  he  consults  his  menu)  "  that  there  may  be  something 
for  which  we  may  have  cause  to  be  grateful.  Our  cook,  thanks 
to  my  lady,  is  anything  but  a  cordon  bleu.  As  usual"  (tasting 
his  soup),  "  the  cayenne-box  has  been  upset  into  the  soup.  Sim- 
kins,  take  it  away"  (addressing  the  butler  savagely,  and  pro- 
ceeding to  write  something  on  a  porcelain  slate  with  a  pencil). 
I  quite  understand  now  why  he  is  not  popular,  and  why 
Hecior  was  vexed  at  my  innocently-meant  speech.  I  feel 
dreadfully  uncomfortable.  This  is  my  first  taste  of  the  stalled 
ox  with  strife.  Oh  for  my  dinner  of  herbs !  Presently  I 
take  courage  to  look  round  me.  We  four  people  are  dining 
in  a  banqueting-room  big  enough  for  a  hundred  guests,  and, 
although  a  long  screen  of  gold-stamped  leather  divides  it  in 
half,  it  still  feels  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  party.  It  does 
not  look  bare,  for  it  is  magnificently  decorated  throughout. 
Our  table  is  lighted  by  mcdia3val  lamps  from  above ;  there  is 
a  great  show  of  silver  and  gold  plate,  with  many  flowers,  on 
the  table  and  the  grand  old  oaken  side-board.  Through  the 
great  mullioned  windows  opposite  me  I  can  see  in  the  waning 
light  a  sea  of  velvet  turf  shaded  by  dark  cedars,  and  the  last 
red  streaks  of  a  gorgeous  sunset.  Inside  there  is  so  much  to 
be  seen  that  I  can  only  at  present  get  a  confused  general  idea 
of  all  the  beautiful  things  crowded  together ;  but  next  morn- 
ing I  get  Mr.  Montagu,  after  breakfast,  to  show  and  explain 
everything  to  me.  Then  I  am  fairly  astonished  by  all  the 
treasures.  The  carved  chimney-piece,  a  gem  in  itself,  ascends 
to  the  ceiling.  On  either  side  of  it  are  quaint  brass  sconces. 
Oak  chests  and  cabinets,  curious  marqueterie  cupboards  abound, 
with  antique  side-boards  and  chiff"oniers,  .covered  with  Nankin 
and  Majolica  ware,  with  Venice,  Dutch,  and  Grermau  glass. 
Scarce  an  inch  of  the  wall  that  is  not  covered  with  paintings, 
shina  plaques,  vast  round  dishes,  sconces,  brass  shields,  brackets, 


DIANA'S  STORY.  169 

carving.  Dutch  scenes  here,  old-flishioned  portraits  there, 
quaint  carvings  on  wood,  ivory,  mother-of-pearl.  There  is  a 
magnificent  old  Amsterdam  clock,  with  sweet  ringing  chimes, 
that  tells  you  all  sorts  of  things  about  the  sun,  moon,  stars, 
days,  weeks,  rnonths,  and  I  know  not  what.  Mr.  Montagu 
is  greatly  amused  at  my  childish  delight  in  pretty  things, 
and  does  cicerone  very  pleasantly. 

I  am  very  glad  when  dinner  is  over ;  it  has  not  been  a 
cheerful  meal ;  for,  although  Sir  Hector  ha's  been  all  that  is 
kind  and  polite  to  me,  he  has  quite  destroyed  any  pleasant 
impression  he  might  have  made  by  his  frequent  and  savage  in- 
vectives against  the  dinner  and  servants,  and  the  sneers  directed 
to  his  wife.  Glad  am  I  when  Lady  IMontagu  gives  me  the 
signal  to  retire. 

"  We  shall  not  be  long,"  says  Mr.  Montagu,  smiling  as  I  pass 
through  the  door  which  he  holds  open  for  us.  I  return  his 
smile.  I  am  not  one  whit  afraid  of  him  since  I  have  seen  his 
father.  As  I  follow  my  hostess  to  the  drawing-room,  I  am 
conscious  of  a  hope  that  we  are  going  to  have  some  pleasant 
chat  wherein  I  shall  hear  mention  of  her  younger'son ;  but  it 
soon  becomes  evident  to  me  that  my  lady  is  sleepily  inclined. 
She  indeed  makes  two  or  three  attempts  to  talk,  but  I  see  her 
head  begin  to  droop  and  her  eyelids  to  close,  and,  that  I  may 
not  interrupt  her  doze,  I  retire  to  a  distant  sofa  with  a  book. 
She  wakes  up  for  a  moment  to  decline  the  coffee  that  is  brought 
her,  and  when  her  husband  and  son  enter,  but  relajjses  again 
into  a  sweet  and  gentle  slumber.  Sir  Hector  comes  up  to  me, 
asks  blandly  what  my  book  is,  passes  a  sweeping  and  compre- 
hensive censure  upon  modern  hterature  in  general  and  lady 
novelists  in  particular,  and  then,  retiring  to  an  arm-chair  near 
the  fire,  follows  suit  most  audibly  to  my  lady.  Portentous 
snores  issue  from  his  aristocratic  nos  >,  but  they  have  only  the 
eflfect  of  lulling  his  wife  into  a  sounder  though  soft-breathed 
slumber. 

H  15 


170  FOR   A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"  We  are  rather  a  cheerful  family  of  an  evening,"  says 
Hector,  sitting  down  beside  me.  "  I  have  a  sort  of  guilty 
feeling  that  I  ought  to  have  prepared  you  for  this." 

"  I  suppose  you  are  not  going  to  do  the  same,"  I  answer,  in 
a  whisper. 

"  Don't  be  afraid  to  speak  out !"  he  remarks,  laughing  : 
'*  nothing  short  of  an  earthquake  would  rouse  him  for  the 
next  half-hour.  My  mother"  (with  a  softer  inflection  of  his 
voice)  "  sleeps  so  badly,  I  am  always  glad  to  see  her  dozing. 
Tell  me,"  he  goes  on,  speaking  eagerly, — "  I  have  been  burn- 
ing to  ask  you  for  the  last  hour, — do  you  still  think  me  like 
my  father  ?" 

"  Not  a  bit,"  I  answer,  emphatically  ;  "  not  a  little  bit." 

"  But  do  you  think,"  he  proceeds,  earnestly, — "  do  you 
think  I  have  the  making  of  what  he  is  in  me  ?  I  don't  Avant 
you  to  flatter  me ;  you  are  sincere,  I  know  :  tell  me  the 
honest  truth.  Do  you  think  if  I  had  a  sweet  amiable  wife, 
who  gave  in  to  me  as  my  poor  mother  has  done  to  him  all  her 
life, — do  you  think  I  might  end  by  becoming  selfish  and  hard 
and  tyrannical  like  he  is  ?  Sometimes  I  have  a  horrid  mis- 
giving about  myself.  I  am  oppressed  with  a  sort  of  nightmare 
that  I  really  am  like  him,  and  it  makes  me  wretched." 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  I  think,"  I  answer,  with  the  candor 
for  which  he  has  asked  with  such  apparent  sincerity.  "  I  don't 
think  you  are  a  bit  like  him  really^  but  some — times — some" 
times"  (I  hesitate). 

"  Well  ?"  he  says,  eagerly,  fixing  his  dark  eyes  on  my  face. 

"  I  think,"  I  proceed,  timidly,  "  you  try  to  make  one  afraid 
of  you  ;  you  look  rather  stern  and  terrible.  You  did  at 
Warrington.     I  used  to  feel  rather  in  awe  of  you  there." 

"  But  you  don't  now?"  he  whispers,  looking  almost  beseech- 
ingly at  me.  His  eyes  have  a  strange  expression  :  if  eyes 
could  look  fierce  and  yet  soft  at  the  same  time  (I  know  it 
sounds  paradoxical),  I  should  say  his  looked  so. 


DIANA'S  STORY.  171 

"  No,"  I  answer,  confidently,  "  not  now." 

"  Promise  me  you  never  will  again,"  he  says,  hurriedly. 
"  I  may  have,  I  believe  I  have^  a  trick  of  looking  stern  and 
sneering.  I  don't  care  a  straw  what  most  people  think  of 
me,  but  it  would  hurt  me  to  know  you  could  feel  fear  or 
repugnance  towards  me, — you  who " 

He  checks  himself,  seeing  perhaps  some  wonder  in  my  eyes. 
Why  should  he  be  concerned  about  my  thoughts  of  him  ? 

"  Do  you  play  chess  ?"  he  asks,  with  rather  a  rapid  change 
of  subject. 

I  answer  in  the  affirmative. 

"  Then  I  must  prepare  you,"  he  says,  smiling.  "  My  father 
will  wake  up  in  precisely  twenty  minutes :  he  will  then  ask 
you  if  you  play  chess.  By  the  way,  are  you  a  good  loser  ? 
does  it  vex  you  to  be  beaten  ?" 

"  Not  in  the  very  least,"  I  answer,  truthfully. 

"  Well,  I  must  warn  you,  if  you  play  indifferently,  my 
father  will  make  genial  little  sneers  at  you  ;  if  you  play  well 
and  beat  him,  he  will  be  furious,  although  he  will  endeavor  not 
to  vent  his  anger  upon  you  ;  if  you  play  well  and  he  beats 
you,  he  will  simply  adore  you,  and  be  radiantly  good-humored." 

"  Forewarned  is  forearmed,"  I  whisper,  laughing. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  he  says,  in  a  vexed  tone,  "you  will  conceive 
a  most  odious  impression  of  us  as  a  family.  Confess,  now, 
you  will  go  to  bed  to-night  with  anything  but  pleasant  thoughts 
of  us  :  you  will  be  longing  for  that  happy  home  of  yours, 
where  you  are  all  so  bright  and  loving  and  unselfish.  Do 
you  know"  (looking  intently  at  me)  "  I  feel  a  different  being 
when  I  escape  from  the  atmosphere  of  this  place  and  get  over 
to  Carew  Court  ?  that  is"  (very  softly)  "  why  I  longed  to  have 
your  sweet  presence  here  to  bring  sunshine.  I  feel  like  Pluto 
did  when  he  carried  off  Proserpine,  only  that  I  should  want 
to  make  you  eat  all  the  pomegranate." 

What  he  has  predicted  of  Sir  Hector  comes  true  to  the 


172  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

letter  :  as  the  clock  chimes  half-past  nine  he  awakes,  and, 
turning  his  head  in  my  direction,  inquires  if  I  play  chess. 

I  make  the  proper  answer  under  the  circumstances : 

«  A  little.". 

"  Let  us  have  a  game  !"  he  exclaims,  rising  briskly.  "  Hec 
tor,  oblige  me  by  getting  the  board." 

"  You  play  with  white  men,  of  course  :  ladies  always  do," 
he  remarks,  when  we  are  seated, — which,  being  interpreted, 
means  that  he  plays  with  red.  I  am  a  tolerable  player  :  papa 
and  I  spend  many  an  evening  over  the  game  ;  and  I  dare 
safely  say  that  never  yet  did  one  of  us  take  umbrage  at  the 
other  winning.  Mindful  of  Hector's  warning,  I  play  my  best, 
but  take  care,  after  a  protracted  contest,  to  lose.  The  result 
is  as  he  predicted  ;  Sir  Hector  is  radiant,  and  pays  me  a 
thousand  compliments. 

"Ah,  my  dear,  you  will  win  next  time,"  he  says,  with 
cheerful  patronage.  "  You  play  an  excellent  game.  I  have 
rarely,  if  ever,  met  so  accomplished  a  chess-jjlaycr  at  your 
age.  Twenty  minutes  to  eleven  :  you  must  be  quite  tired. 
Be  good  enough  to  ring  for  candles,  Hector.  Come,  my  lady, 
wake  up.     No  wonder  you  cannot  sleep  at  night." 

Lady  Montagu  rouses  herself. 

"  My  dear,"  she  says,  kindly,  as  she  bids  me  good-night, 
"  I  have  been  very  rude.  But  I  am  a  very  stupid  person  in 
the  evening.  To-morrow  I  hope  we  shall  have  a  nice  long  chat. 
Meantime,  promise  me  to  ask  for  everything  you  want.  I  do 
hope  you  will  sleep  well."  She  draws  me  to  her  and  kisses 
me  gently  on  the  cheek.  Again  the  thought  comes  across  me 
that  I  should  like  to  have  a  mother.  I  say  as  much  to  Hector 
a.s  he  walks  beside  me  along  the  corridor. 

"  I  wish  my  mother  were  yours,"  he  says,  softly. 

"So  do  I,"  I  answer,  without  any  arriere-pensee. 

"  Do  you  ?"  he  whispers.  "  I  wonder  if  you  wish  it  in  the 
same  way  that  I  do." 


DIANA'S  STORY.  173 

A  vexed  blush  mounts  to  my  forehead. 

"  Good-night,"  I  say,  rather  shortly,  giving  him  my  hand, 
without  looking  up. 

"  Good-night,"  he  answers,  lingeringly,  holding  it  until  I 
am  forced  to  look  at  him.  "  Do  not  be  vexed  with  me.  I 
shall  never  offend  you  intentionally." 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 


DIANA  S    STORY. 


I  HAVE  been  three  days  at  Alford  Court.  I  love  Lady 
Montagu ;  and  no  one  could  be  kinder  than  her  son.  I  can 
hardly  realize  that  he  is  the  same  man  who  used  to  frighten 
and  bore  me  at  Warrington.  After  breakfast  we  always  go 
out  together,  sometimes  riding,  sometimes  walking.  He  occu- 
pies himself  a  great  deal  about  the  property,  and  always  has 
some  business  on  hand. 

One  thing  I  remark  which  surprises  me  not  a  little :  it  is 
his  pleasant  manner  with  his  inferiors.  As  we  pass  the  cot- 
tages he  always  has  a  kind  word  for  the  women  and  children : 
he  seems  quite  unostentatiously  to  know  about,  and  take  an 
interest  in,  their  personal  affairs.  I  notice,  too,  that  they  all 
brighten  up  and  look  very  pleased  and  cheerful  when  he 
speaks  to  them.  His  manner  to  servants  and  laborers  is  just 
my  idea  of  what  .a  gentleman's  mariner  should  be, — oh,  such 
a  contrast  from  Sir  Hector's !  it  is  kind  and  dignified,  it  com- 
mands respect,  and,  I  can  see,  affection  as  well.  I  have  never 
once  heard  him  speak  harshly  to  or  of  any  one,  excepting 
perhaps  his  father  ;  and  I  really  cannot  wonder  at  that.     One 

15* 


174  FOR   A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

morning  lie  lias  to  go  to  Willington  on  business,  and  I  occupy 
my  leisure  in  visiting  some  of  liis  mother's  jDOor.  My  first 
visit  is  made  to  one  of  lier  special  protcyies^  a  woman  dying 
of  consumption. 

I  find  the  poor  patient  by  the  fire,  though  it  is  a  warm 
May  morning,  in  a  room  beautifully  clean  and  neat,  and  with 
many  comforts  which  I  am  surprised  to  see,  but  which  she 
explains  to  me  presently  by  pointing  them  out  as  gifts  from 
my  lady  or  Mr.  Montagu.  She  is  propped  on  soft  pillows  in 
an  easy-chair,  but  she  looks  terribly  haggard  and  worn :  there 
is  a  bright  spot  on  either  cheek ;  her  voice  is  faint  and  low, 
and  seems  to  come  with  an  effort.  She  is  immensely  inter- 
ested in  hearing  about  Lady  3Iontagu,  and,  when  I  have  told 
her  all  I  know,  she  goes  on  to  tell  me,  in  her  feeble  voice,  of 
my  lady's  goodness  to  her. 

"  We  should  all  ha'  been  in  the  House,  or  starving,  if  it 
hadn't  ha'  been  for  her.  Sir  Hector's  a  hard  man,  miss:  he 
don't  seem  to  think  us  poor  folks  is  made  of  the  same  flesh 
and  blood  as  him.  I  don't  say  as  we  are,  miss,  altogether 
like"  (in  an  apologetic  tone  which  makes  me  smile)  :  "  still, 
we  are  flesh  and  blood,  an'  we  hev  our  feelings,  an'  when  the 
gentry  is  good  to  us,  like  my  lady  and  Mr.  Montagu,  we're 
ready  to  fall  down  an'  worship  'em.  I've  heard  tell  as  poor 
people's  so  ongrateful,  but  I  never  see  it  so,  nor  I  don't  believe 
it.  I  know  there's  hardly  one  in  this  village  as  wouldn't  lay 
down  their  lives  for  my  lady  if  so  be  as  they  was  called  upon 
to  do  it.  And  I'm  sure  I  wouldn't  wish  harm  to  no  one, 
standing  as  you  may  say  with  one  foot  in  the  grave  myself, 
but  it'll  be  a  blessed  day  for  Alford  when  Mr.  Montagu  steps 
into  Sir  Hector's  shoes.  He's  all  for  doin'  everything  for  the 
poor,  an'  buildin'  new  cottages,  an'  raisin'  wages,  an'  encour- 
agin'  poor  folks  to  take  a  pride  in  themselves  ;  an'  I  have 
heard  tell  that  he  an'  Sir  Hector  do  quarrel  dreadful  at  times 
about  it.     I  know  he  does  a  deal  out  of  his  own  pocket,  for 


DIANA'S  STORF.  175 

Sir  Hector  is  one  of  those  as  'ud  skin  a  flint,  as  the  sayiu'  is, 
although  he  keeps  up  such  a  deal  o'  grandeur  at  the  Court." 

1  have  more  talk  with  her,  and  then  I  go  on  to  pay  a  few 
more  visits  in  the  parish.  All  the  cottages  I  go  into  are  very 
clean.  Most  of  them  boast  some  present  from  my  lady  or  Mr. 
Montagu,  which  is  shown  me  with  great  pride. 

I  come  away  from  my  round  of  visits  with  a  greatly  height- 
ened opinion  of  Hector  and  a  certain  sense  of  shame  at  having 
so  misjudged  him.  Of  his  sweet  kind  mother  I  had  been 
prepared  to  hear  only  praise. 

''  Where  have  you  been?"  cries  the  object  of  my  thoughts, 
reining  up  beside  me,  and  looking,  I  think  (feeling  as  I  do 
excellently  disposed  towards  him),  stalwart  and  handsome  on 
his  fine  gray  horse. 

"  I  have  been  making  calls,"  I  reply,  laughing. 

"  Calls  ?"  he  echoes,  surprised.  "  Alone  ?  Oh,  at  the  rec- 
tory, I  suppose." 

"  No  ;  guess  again." 

"  But  there  is  no  one  else  to  guess." 

"  I  have  been  to  see  Mrs.  Seward,  and  poor  old  Brown, 
and  Mrs.  Banks,  and  Janet  Hill, — quite  a  round  of  morning 
calls." 

"  Have  you  really?"  he  says,  eagerly. 

"  Yes,  and  I  heard  a  great  deal  of  news,"  I  continue,  nod- 
ding my  head  wisely, — '■  about  you  too." 

"  What  did  you  hear?"' 

"  Never  mind :  I  am  not  going  to  make  you  conceited." 

He  laughs  lightly. 

"That's  the  worst  of  poor  people,"  he  says:  "they  do 
chatter  so  dreadfully.  Of  course  they  would  be  sure  to  say 
everything  that  was  civil  about  us,  as  you  come  from  the 
Court." 

"Ah,"  I  remark,  mysteriously,  "but  they  did  not  say 
everything  that  was  civil  about  cveryhody.     And"  (laughing) 


17G  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"  they  did  not  say,  as  I  did,  that  you  were  '  so  like  your 
father.'  " 

"  Thank  God  for  tliat !"  he  says,  laughing  too.  "What  are 
■we  going  to  do  this  afternoon  ?  Does  my  mother  think  of 
driving  ?" 

"  No,  the  wind  is  easterly,  although  it  is  so  fine,  and  she  is 
afraid." 

"  I  wonder "  begins  Hector,  musingly,  and  then  pauses. 

"  What  do  you  wonder  ?" 

"  I  wonder  if  I  put  the  horses  in  the  mail-phaeton  if  you 
would  let  me  drive  you  out  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  should  like  it,"  I  cry,  eagerly.  The  proprieties 
have  never  been  imjiressed  upon  my  young  mind,  probably 
because  I  have  never  had  the  least  chance  of  infringing  them. 

"  I  must  not  be  selfish,"  he  says.  "  I  would  not  for  the 
world  let  you  do  anything  that  is  not  quite  en  regie.  Tell  me" 
(hesitating),  "  do  you  think  Mr.  Carew  would  object  in  any 
way?" 

"  Object !"  I  exclaim,  wonderingly  :  "  why  should  he?  You 
can  drive,  can't  you  ?" 

He  looks  amused. 

"  My  misgivings  are  not  on  that  head.  Let  us  go  in  and 
ask  my  mother." 

We  have  reached  the  stables :  the  groom  takes  his  horse, 
and  we  saunter  towards  the  house. 

Lady  Montagu,  when  appealed  to,  does  not  see  any  objec- 
tion, thinks  it  will  be  a  nice  change  for  me,  will  not  find 
it  dull  alone,  has  a  most  interesting  book  she  is  anxious  to 
finish. 

Very  blithe  and  glad  I  feel  that  afternoon  when  Hector, 
having  helped  me  in,  jumps  up  beside  me.  It  is  a  heavenly 
afternoon :  the  sun  is  hot  and  bright,  the  sweet  spring  scents 
come  balmily  across  us  from  the  hedgerows,  and  the  keen  cool 
wind  plays  in  our  face  as  we  cleave  it  swiftly.     Perched  high 


DIANA'S  STORY.  177 

up  behind  a  dashing  pair  of  horses  with  proud  tossed  heads 
and  foam-flecked  bits,  sitting  beside  a  man  who  is  pleasant 
company  and  who  cares  to  please  me,  I  feel  life  such  a  good 
thing :  a  delicious  exhilaration  floats  through  every  sense.  I 
feel  happy  ;  I  look  happy  ;  glad  laughter  bubbles  from  my  lips. 
It  is  contagious :  he  sees  it,  he  laughs  too.  There  is  not  one 
unkind  or  sneering  curve  about  his  lips  to-day.  He  looks  at 
me  ever  so  kindly. 

"  Are  you  pleased  ?"  he  asks  me.  "  I  think  you  are.  As 
for  me,  I  feel  like  a  school-boy  out  for  a  holiday  after  the  long 
term.  And  to  think  I  was  so  near  not  going  to  Warrington  1 
If  I  had  not,  you  would  not  be  here  now  ;  I  might  never  have 
known  you." 

"  What  a  loss  !"  I  laugh. 

"It  would  have  been  a  loss,"  he  says,  gravely;  "  perhaps, 
though"  (with  a  sigh),  "  it  might  have  been  better  for  me." 

"  It  would  not  have  better  for  me,"  I  answei",  feeling  too 
happy  and  iiisouciante  to  weigh  my  words. 

He  turns  towards  me,  as  if  to  say  something;  then,  check- 
ing himself  abruptly,  he  points  with  his  whip  to  the  hedge. 

"  Is  not  that  hawthorn  delicious  ?"  he  says. 

"  Yes,"  I  answer ;  "  but  that  is  not  what  you  were  going 
to  say." 

I  feel  a  delicious  little  sense  of  coquetry :  something  in 
the  sunshine,  the  keen  air,  the  May  odors,  inspires  me:  I  long 
to  hear  soft  and  pleasant  words ;  if  I  knew  what  the  sensation 
was.  I  could  almost  fancy  I  feel  inclined  to  flirt  with  my  com- 
panion. He  looks  at  me  with  a  grave  smile  that  seems  to 
penetrate  my  sensuous  enjoyment  of  the  moment. 

"  You  are  right,"  he  says :  "  I  was  going  to  say  something 
else ;  but  I  will  not  say  it  now.  You  are  full  of  impulse  ;  you 
are  a  child ;  but  I  am  a  man,  and  I  ought  to  be  superior  to 
the  temptations  of  sudden  emotion." 

"  Now,"  said  I,  pettishly,  "  you  remind  me  of  what  you 

H* 


178  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

■were  at  Warrington.    In  another  moment  I  shall  be  afraid  of 
you  again " 


"  Do  not,"  he  says,  quickly.  "  Why,  child"  (with  a  pleas- 
ant smile),  "  how  could  you  fear  me?  Have  you  not  learned 
yet  that  you  are  everything  I  most  admire  and  reverence, — 
young,  pure,  sweet,  unselfish,  modest,  charitable  ?"  He  speaks 
in  a  whisper,  but  there  is  .a  ring  of  subdued  feeling  in  it. 
"  When  I  was  at  Warrington  you  saw  me  stern  and  cold,  be- 
cause one  or  other  of  those  women  (you  know  whom  I  mean) 
chafed  and  angered  me  every  moment :  I  could  not  even  bear 
you  to  come  in  contact  with  them.  I  felt  half  disposed  to 
quarrel  with  Mrs.  Warrington,  for  the  firsjt  time  in  my  life, 
because  she  had  asked  an  innocent  child  like  you  to  meet  them. 
And  then,  too"  (sinking  his  voice  still  lower),  "  though  I  hate 
confessing  it,  I  did  feel  a  little  jealous  when  I  saw  you  so  gay 
and  merry  with  others,  and  I  seemed  only  to  have  a  sort  of 
wet-blanket  effect  upon  you." 

"  Well,  you  have  not  that  effect  now,"  I  laugh.  "  I  shall 
always  like  you  and  feel  at  home  with  you  in  future." 

"  How  can  you  tell  ?"  he  says,  rather  grimly.  "  I  have 
no  one  to  stand  in  my  way ;  there  is  no  other  man  here  ex- 
cept my  father"  (laughing),  "  and  I  do  not  think  he  is  dan- 
gerous.    Suppose,  now"  (his  face  darkening  suddenly) 

"Do  not  let  us  sup^jose  anything,"  I  interrupt  quickly, 
with  an  uneasy  intuition  of  his  thought.  "  Let  us  enjoy  this 
lovely  afternoon  and  be  happy." 

"Let  us!"  he  echoes,  brightening  up.  "You  are  quite 
right.  Sufficient  for  the  day  let  the  good  thereof  be,  and 
don't  let  us  spoil  it  by  anticipating  evil  for  to-morrow.  I 
think  if  the  text  had  been  worded  in  that  way  it  would  have 
been  even  more  applicable  than  it  is." 

So  we  drive  along  the  smooth  white  roads,  up  hills  where 
we  get  lovely  little  glimpses  of  green  valleys  and  winding 
shimmering  waters,  and  down  again  into  sweet-smelling,  hedge- 


DIANA'S  STORY.  179 

bound  lanes,  past  cottages,  with  thin  blue  streaks  of  smoke 
curling  from  their  chinmcys,  and  trim  gardens  sown  with  red 
and  white  daisies,  with  wallflowers,  and  hedges  of  sweet-brier, 
scenting  the  air  around,  past  farms  with  their  neat  rows  of 
golden  stacks,  past  green  meadows  ablaze  with  buttercups, 
where  the  sleek  cattle  stand  almost  knee-deep,  past  village 
churches  with  their  quaint  old  towers,  their  grass-grown 
mounds  and  moss-covered  tombstones.  It  seems  sad  to  think 
of  the  dead  this  fair  spring  day,  when  only  to  live  is  so  glad 
a  thing.  A  little  shudder  creeps  through  me  at  the  bare 
thought  that  I  too  some  day  shall  be  with  those  that  sleep. 

"  Of  lips  full  of  love  and  laughter, 
Fair  brows  and  radiant  eyes, 
There  is  left  but  a  grinning  skull, 
And  perhaps  a  headstone  that  lies." 

We  have  passed.  The  thought  is  gone  again.  We  are 
looking  in  at  the  village  blacksmith's,  where  the  great  fire  roars 
and  blazes  up,  while  the  smith  stands  in  the  ruddy  light, 
beating  a  thousand  sparks  from  his  anvil,  and  the  big  patient 
horses  wait  until  their  ttirn  comes.  We  pass  some  tumble- 
down-looking cottages,  and  our  talk  falls  on  our  poorer  neigh- 
bors. 

"Ah,"  I  say,  with  some  enthusiasm,  "I  know  that  when 
Alford  is  yours,  you  will  be  a  model  landlord  :  you  will  try 
to  make  your  people  better  oiF ;  you  will  encourage  them  to 
respect  themselves,  and  that  they  cannot  do  until  they  are  put 
in  the  way  of  it  by  having  tidy,  clean,  convenient  homes." 

"  It  does  not  do  to  count  upon  dead  men's  shoes,  you  know," 
he  answers,  with  a  grave  smile ;  "  and  property  is,  after  all,  a 
very  serious  responsibility,  if  one  looks  upon  it  as  one  ought 
to  do,  not  as  a  vehicle  for  selfish  indulgence,  but  as  a  means 
to  benefit  those  about  one.  Then  it  is  so  difiicult  to  know 
how  really  to  do  good  to  one's  fellow-creatures:  it  isn't  enough 


180  FOR   A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

to  have  the  will,  or  even  the  means,  but  one  must  have  a  prac- 
tical head  and  a  certain  familiarity  with  the  working  of  their 
minds.  You  have  only  to  take  up  the  newspapers  every  day 
to  see  how  the  most  benevolent  intentions  come  to  grief,  and 
how  hundreds  of  thousands  of  pounds  are  subscribed  yearly 
that  hardly  do  one  iota  of  good.  It  won't  do  to  insist  upon 
benefiting  people  in  your  own  particular  way :  you  have  to  find 
out  what  their  way  is,  and  then  set  to  work.  And  you  want," 
he  goes  on,  his  voice  deepening  and  his  eyes  flashing,  "  help 
and  sympathy  more  than  anything  in  this  world ;  because 
there  is  nothing  so  heart-wearing,  so  bitterly  disappointing, 
as  having  a  keen  desire  to  help  your  brother-man,  and  finding 
all  your  strivings,  as  they  are  half  the  time,  dead  foilures. 
Look  at  my  mother,  what  a  sweet,  kind,  sympathetic,  loving 
nature  she  has, — what  a  helpmate  would  she  have  been  for 
a  man  in  my  father's  position  if  he  had  ever  tried  to  do  any 
good,  or  thought  of  anything  or  any  one  but  himself, — and 
see  how  he  has  crushed  everything  out  of  her  but  her  sweet 
goodness  of  heart  and  pity,  which  nothing  could  destroy.  Can 
you  wonder"  (with  suppressed  passion)  "  that  I  hate  and  de- 
spise him,  as,  God  forgive  me,  I  do  sometimes?  I  dare  say, 
though"  (changing  his  voice),  "  if  ever  I  do  come  into  Al- 
ford  I  shall  not  do  a  quarter  that  I  think  and  believe  I  should 
now:  'a  liberal-minded  heir  often  makes  a  stingy  lord,'  they 
say.  But  I  should  love  to  think,"  he  whispers,  "  that,  if  ever 
I  am  master  here,  I  shall  have  a  loving,  tender-hearted  woman 
for  my  wife,  who  would  help  and  influence  me  to  do  what  was 
right." 

He  fixes  his  dark  eyes  upon  my  face.  His  words  seem  to 
thrill  through  me  :  the  quick  crimson  dyes  my  face.  "What 
does  he  mean  ?  At  this  moment  we  drive  under  the  splendid 
gateway  of  Alford,  and  a  minute  later  stop  at  the  house  door. 


DIANAS  STORY.  181 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Diana's  story. 

"  How  provoking !"  exclaims  Mr.  Montagu  next  morning 
at  breakfast,  looking  really  vexed  as  lie  j^uts  down  the  letter 
he  has  been  reading. 

"  What  is  provoking?"  I  ask. 

"  I  suppose  there  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  go"  (^sotto  voce  to 
himself).  Then,  aloud,  in  answer  to  me,  "  I  am  obliged  to 
go  to  London,  and  I  cannot  by  any  possibility  get  back  before 
to-morrow  afternoon." 

"  What  a  pity!"  I  say,  reflecting  that  it  will  be  rather  dull 
in  his  absence. 

"  If  I  had  only  had  this  yesterday"  (ci'umpling  it  in  his 
hands),  "  writing  would  have  done  as  well ;  but  now  I  am 
bound  to  go, — confound  the  fellow  !" 

He  rings  the  bell  with  some  impatience,  and  Simkins 
appears. 

"  Tell  Gibbs  to  put  the  mare  in  the  dog-cart  and  be  round 
in  half  an  hour,  sharp." 

"May  I  go  with  you  to  the  station  ?"  I  whisper. 

Sir  Hector,  with  his  head  out  of  window,  is  withering  up 
the  head-gardener  with  one  of  his  genial  sarcasms. 

"  Will  you  ?"  he  says,  looking  pleased.  "  Won't  it  be  hur- 
rying you  too  much  over  your  breakfast  ?" 

"  Not  a  bit.  I  shall  love  a  drive  this  heavenly  morning. 
I  only  wish  it  was  ten  miles  instead  of  three." 

"  So  do  I,"  he  answers,  laughing  :  "  on  this  occasion  only, 
though." 

It  is  the  heavenliest  May  morning  the  mind  of  man  can 
16 


182  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

conceive,  or  his  heart  desire.  There  has  been  a  shower  in  the 
moruiug,  and  now  every  leaf  is  a  shining,  radiant  green,  every 
flower  exhales  its  sweetest  odors,  every  bird  is  shouting  its 
triumphant  song  of  joy  and  welcome  to  the  new  day. 

"  Hark  !  there  is  the  nightingale  !"  I  say  to  Hector,  as  we 
bowl  swiftly  along  through  the  park.  "  Do  you  remember  the 
lines  in  Enid?" 

"No,"  he  answers:  '-I  am  not  good  at  poetry.  Tell  me 
them." 

"  When  first  the  liquid  note,  beloved  of  man, 

Comes  flying  over  many  a  windy  wave 

To  Britain,  and  in  April  suddenly 

Breaks  from  a  coppice  gemmed  with  green  and  red. 

And  he  suspends  his  converse  with  a  friend 
-    To  think  or  say,  '  There  is  the  nightingale.'  " 

And  Hector  says,  looking  at  me  kindly, — 

"  I  should  soon  get  to  like  poetry  if  you  said  and  read  it  to 
me." 

"  It  strikes  me,"  I  remark,  evading  the  compliment,  "  that 
reading  would  be  dull  work  if  there  were  no  poetry." 

"  And  life  would  be  dull  work  if  there  were  no  love,"  he 
says,  gently. 

"  There  is  the  station  already,"  I  exclaim,  in  a  tone  of  dis- 
appointment :   "  it  cannot  possibly  be  three  miles." 

"  Three  and  a  quarter  exactly,"  he  answers.  "  I  am  glad 
you  found  it  so  short.  Good-by,"  giving  me  the  reins,  and 
holding  my  hand  for  a  moment  in  a  strong,  kind  clasp. 
"  Think  of  me  once  or  twice  while  I  am  away  1"  I  smile 
assent. 

"  Drive  home  very  carefully,' '  he  says  to  the  groom. 
"  Jump  up." 

As  we  drive  gently  back  to  Alford,  I  feel  sorry  that  he  is 
gone :  the  day  will  not  be  so  pleasant  or  so  short  without  him. 
I  am  obeying  his  request,  and  thinking  of  him  all  the  way 


DIANA'S  STORY.  183 

home.     What  .shall  I  do  ?  it  is  only  hulf-past  ten,  and  Lady 
Montajru  will  not  be  down  for  at  least  an  hour.     One  caiinot 
sit  in-doors  this  heavenly  morning.     All  at  once  I  bethink  me 
of  the  boat  on  the  lake,  and  thither  I  betake  myself.     One  of 
the  gardeners  unlocks  the  padlock,  brings  out  the  cushions, 
and  asks  if  I  will  have  some  one  to  row  me.   I  decline.    I  want 
freedom  to  enjoy  all  the  sweets  of  this  May  morning;  I  will 
have  it  all  to  myself.     So,  when  he  has  loosed  the  boat  from 
its  moorings,  I  lie  luxuriously  back  on  the  cushions  and  let  it 
drift  lazily  where  it  will.     Sometimes  a  little  current  carries 
us  into  midwater,  sometimes  a  puff  of  wind  blows  us  back 
under  the  deep  shade  of  the  low-hanging  branches.     Shoals 
of  big  carp,  unmindful  of  me,  are  lying  atop  of  the  water,  their 
burnished  brazen  sides  gleaming  like  cuirasses  in  the  broad 
sunshine :  they  come  so  near  the  boat  I  can  almost  put  out  my 
hand  and  touch  them.     The  big  green  lily-leaves  are  spread- 
ing over  the  water ;  now  and  then  we  catch  in  them  until  a 
little  gust  blows  us  off  again.     The  warm  rain  that  fell  in  the 
morning  has  brought  out  a  thousand  new  buds  and  flowers. 
Yon  hawthorn  that  was  green  last  night  is  white  with  fairy- 
blossoms   this   morning  ;    the  laburnums  are  dropping  their 
lavish  golden  showers  ;  the  lilacs  fling  up  their  heads  proudly 
above  the  evergreens ;  a  rich  scent  rises  from  the  moist  earth. 
Through  the  branches  the  cool,  soft  wind  makes  a  tender 
soughing  sound,  swelling  and  falling  in  a  plaintive  cadence 
like  waves  plashing  on  a  distant  shore.     The  blackbird's  joy- 
ous whistle  pierces  the  clear  air ;  just  above  me  where  I  lie,  a 
thrush's  bright  eye  looks  down  suspiciously  upon  me  from  her 
nest;  a  wren  flits  into  her  neat-thatched  hole  in  the  bank;  a 
tom-tit  flies  into  his  house  in  the  pear-tree ;  a  tiny  robin  sits 
on  a  yew-branch  close  to  my  head,  and  trills  me  a  little  song 
with  his  head  on  one  side,  whilst  a  thousand  of  his  full-throated 
fellows  are  shouting  their  paean  to  the  sun.     In  the  fir-trees 
yonder  the  wood-pigeons  are  cooing  their  tender  little  love- 


184  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

song,  and  in  the  distance  the  cuckoo  chants  the  only  two  notes 
he  knows. 

An  indolent  sense  of  hien-ttre  fills  me.  "  I  am  quite 
happy  !"  I  murnmr  to  myself. 

"  And,  ev'n  in  saying  this, 
Her  memory,  from  old  liabit  of  the  mind. 
Went  slipping  back  upon  the  golden  days 
lu  which  she  saw  him  first." 

"  If  he  were  here !"  I  think,  and  a  slight  pang  thrills 
tlirough  me.  I  hear  my  name  called  by  a  gentle  voice.  It 
is  Lady  Montagu,  who  is  standing  on  the  bank. 

"  Is  it  you  ?"  I  cry,  springing  up,  and  punting  myself 
shorewards.  "  Do  come  in  and  let  me  row  you."  She  shakes 
her  head. 

"  I  am  afraid  of  the  water,  and  the  sun  is  so  hot,"  she  an- 
swers, smiling.  "  Come  and  walk  in  the  shade  with  me ;" 
and  I  obey.  "  I  have  just  had  such  delightful  news,"  she 
continues,  as  I  set  foot  on  the  bank ;  "  Charlie  is  coming  to- 
day." 

My  heart  gives  a  great  bound,  the  treacherous  riotous  blood 
springs  into  my  face,  and  I  stoop  quickly  and  pretend  to  busy 
myself  in  arranging  the  cushions. 

"  The  telegram  came  half  an  hour  ago,"  she  proceeds,  un- 
aware of  my  confusion  ;  "  he  will  be  here  in  time  for  dinner 
to-night." 

My  heart  beats  tumultuously,  exultantly ;  in  vain  I  say  to 
myself,  "  He  is  nothing  to  you, — he  cares  nothing  for  you ;" 
it  will  not  be  repressed. 

Lady  Montagu  })laces  her  hand  upon  my  arm,  I  take  charge 
of  her  camp-stool,  and  we  pace  up  and  down  under  the  fra- 
grant firs. 

"  You  have  met  him,  have  you  not?"  she  asks  of  me ;  and 
I  try  to  say  "  yes"  indifferently. 


DIANA'S  STORY.  185 

"  He  is  a  dear  fellow,"  she  goes  on,  all  the  mother's  love 
shining  in  her  beautiful  gray  eyes.  "  It  is  a  great  trial  to  me 
seeing  so  little  of  him  ;  but"  (sighing)  "  of  course  his  profession 
takes  him  away  a  great  deal,  and  then  this  is  not  a  very  lively 
place  for  a  man  who  loves  pleasant  society  and  has  as  much 
of  it  as  he  does.  I  am  glad  you  are  here  ;  it  will  make  it  less 
dull  for  him." 

As  she  speaks,  a  little  sudden  flush  comes  into  her  face,  and 
I  know  quite  well  what  thought  has  brought  it  there. 

"I  want  him  to  marry,"  she  says,  after  a  slight  pause. 
"You  know"  (looking  at  me)  "he  is  not  like  Hector;  he  is 
only  a  younger  son,  and  must  marry  a  woman  with  money. 
It  seems  almost  a  pity  their  positions  cannot  be  reversed. 
Hector  is  not  in  the  least  extravagant,  and  poor  dear  Charlie, 
— well,  it  is  very  natural  with  his  disposition  that  he  should 
value  luxury  and  elegance."  That  is  how  the  fond  mother 
puts  it.  "  My  sons  were  always  so  different,"  she  continues. 
"  Hector  is  so  high-minded  and  good,  he  will  make  an  excel- 
lent husband ;  people  are  sometimes  a  little  afraid  of  him  at 
first,  but  you,  my  dear"  (with  a  little  pressure  of  her  arm  on 
mine),  "  you  seem  quite  to  understand  him." 

"  I  was  a  little  afraid  of  Mr.  Montagu  at  first,"  I  answer, 
"  but  I  see  now  how  really  good  he  is,  and  I — ^I  admire  and 
respect  him  very  much."  In  spite  of  myself,  my  voice  sounds 
cold  and  constrained. 

"  He  has  a  very  great  admiration  for  you,"  she  says,  kindly, 
"  and  you  have  a  wonderful  effect  upon  him.  I  never  saw  him 
so  bright  and  lively  before :  he  is  of  a  very  sedate  disposition. 
Now,  Charlie"  (warming  with  her  subject) — "  Charlie  is  so 
very  cheerful  and  amusing,  in  spite  of  that  little  indolent 
manner  he  affects.  It  is  really  not  natural  to  him.  I  cannot 
think  why  he  does  it." 

I  long  to  burst  forth  into  eager  praise  of  him,  but  do  not 
dare,  lest  I  should  betray  mysjclf.     I  have  no  fortune.     I  am 

16* 


186  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

not  for  him,  even  (I  think,  sidling)  if  he  had  a  thought  to 
bestow  upon  nic.  So  I  content  myself  with  Hstening  whilst 
the  fond  mother  talks  gladly  on  upon  the  theme  which  has  of 
all  others  the  most  charm  for  me.  And  all  that  happy  after- 
noon, as  we  drive  along  the  scented  lanes,  or  sit  together  over 
our  needle-work,  or  I  read  aloud,  a  triumphant  voice  is  shout- 
ing in  my  ear,  "  He  is  coming !" 

And  when  he  does  come  at  last,  and  his  cheery  voice 
sounds  in  the  hall,  I  am  almost  afraid  at  the  wild  rush  of  joy 
that  flies  to  my  heart.  The  door  opens ;  his  mother  runs 
towards  it ;  she  is  in  his  arms,  and  he  is  bending  over  her, 
looking  handsomer  than  ever,  and  kissing  her  afiectionately. 
Then,  lifting  his  eyes,  they  meet  mine,  that  are  trying  ever  so 
hard  not  to  look  glad  and  eager. 

"  What !     Miss  Carew  !     By  Jove  !" 

That  is  all  he  says ;  but  he  looks  pleased,  and,  coming  for- 
ward, takes  my  hand  with  the  warmest,  friendliest  clasp,  as  if 
he  had  known  me  a  lifetime. 

"  This  is  a  surprise  !"  he  ejaculates.  "  Why,  mother,  you 
did  not  tell  me  when  you  wrote  that  you  were  expecting  such 
a  charming  guest.     Where  is  Hector?" 

"  So  unfortunate !"'  says  Lady  Montagu,  looking  as  if  she 
could  not  take  her  smiling  eyes  from  her  son's  face.  "  He 
had  a  letter  this  morning  that  obliged  him  to  go  up  to  London 
immediately." 

"  So  unfortunate  !"  echoes  Charlie,  looking  at  me  with  eyes 
brimful  of  laughter.  "  I  wonder  now  whether  I  shall  be  able 
to  take  his  place  for  the  next  four-and-twenty  hours.  By 
Jove !  how  glad  I  am  to  find  you  here !  I  shall  write  for 
extension  of  leave,  and  you  and  I  between  us  will  turn  the 
house  out  of  windows,  and  drive  the  old  gentleman  to  the 
verge  of  madness." 

"  Diana  will  not  aid  and  abet  you/'  returns  his  mother.  "  I 
can  answer  for  her."  », 


DIANA'S  STORK  187 

"  Yoii  don't  know,  my  dear,''  he  retorts,  gayly,  "  what  Miss 
Carew's  capabilities  are.  I  suppose  she  has  felt  so  sat  upon 
here,  between  the  governor  and  Hector,  that  she  hasn't  dared 
call  her  soul  her  own." 

"  Indeed  I  have  been  very  happy,"  I  hasten  to  interpose. 

"  Not  a  doubt"  (his  eyes  laughing  more  than  ever)  ;  "  and 
now  that  I  have  arrived  you  are  going  to  be  happier  still." 

I  forget  all  about  my  promise  to  Hector  to  think  of  him, 
or,  if  I  do,  it  is  to  be  secretly  glad,  ungrateful  as  it  seems, 
that  he  is  away.  I  fancied  I  was  happy  and  contented  yester- 
day ;  to-night  my  heart  is  full  of  joy :  it  was  the  diiference 
between  negative  and  positive  happiness.  What  care  I  bestow 
upon  my  toilette !  how  anxiously  I  consult  my  mirror !  how  I 
long  to  know  what  is  his  favorite  color !  Oh,  if  some  fairy 
godmother  would  but  step  in  for  once  and  make  me  passing 
fair  for  my  Prince  Charming  !  Yet  all  the  time  an  uneasy 
mocking  voice  M'ithin  me  keeps  saying,  Foolish  one !  what 
can  you  hope  to  be  to  him  ?  You  are  at  best  but  a  jiis-alkr  : 
when  he  goes  back  to  the  lovely  high-bred  women  of  his 
society,  what  chance  have  you  of  being  remembered  by  him  ? 
Any  more  than  you  remember  Hector?  adds  a  reproachful 
Mentor  within.  But  I  heed  no  warning  to-night :  my  only 
thought  is  for  the  present,  and  "  let  what  will  come  after,"  I 
say,  recklessly. 

When  I  take  my  final  glance  in  the  cheval  glass,  I  am  satis- 
fied and  yet  not  satisfied.  I  look  as  well,  I  think,  as  I  can 
look  ;  but,  oh,  how  much  fairer  I  must  be  before  I  could  be 
worthy  to  please  him  !  It  wants  still  ten  minutes  to  dinner- 
time.    Shall  I  go  down  ?     He  will  not  be  there,  of  course  ; 

he  is  always  late ;  but But  still  I  go.     He  is  there, 

after  all, — a  little  guilty  blush  steals  into  my  cheeks, — there, 
and  alone. 

"  Fancy  my  being  ready  in  time  1"  he  says,  gayly,  coming 
forward.  ^ 


188  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"  Wonders  will  never  cease,"  I  answer,  laughing  rather 
constraiuedly. 

"  I  was  determined  everything  should  go  off  harmoniously 
this  evening,"  he  says.  "  Tell  me"  (eying  me  with  some 
curiosity),  "  what  sort  of  time  have  you  had  of  it  here  ? 
Has  my  fivther  d d  the  servants  much,  and  visited  every- 
body's short-comings  upon  my  poor  mother  ?" 

"  Much  the  same  as  usual,"  I  reply,  in  a  half-whisper, 
stealing  a  backward  glance  over  my  shoulder,  to  make  sure 
Sir  Hector  is  not  within  earshot. 

"  Awfully  jolly  house  to  stay  in  !  Jolly  is  just  the  right 
word,  isn't  it  ?"  he  goes  on,  seating  himself  in  front  of  me, 
and  contemplating  me  with  perfect  deliberation.  "  I  see 
that  already  a  great  deal  of  spirit  has  gone  out  of  you  :  you 
have  lost  that  mischievous  sparkle  in  the  eyes  you  had  at 
Warrington.  I  shall  devote  myself  to  the  agreeable  task  of 
bringing  it  back.  I  feel  ready  for  any  enormity,  if  you  will 
only  back  me  up.  With  your  help  and  countenance,  I  be- 
lieve I  am  capable  of  making  the  old  gentleman  an  apple-pie 
bed,  hiding  his  brushes,  tying  a  string  to  the  bedclothes,  or 
practicing  any  other  witty  little  joke  of  the  kind." 

The  idea,  in  conjunction  with  the  autocrat  of  Alford,  is  so 
irreverently  comic,  and  he  enunciates  it  with  such  perfect 
gravity,  that  I  burst  into  a  peal  of  laughter. 

"  That  is  right,"  he  says,  approvingly  :  "  let  us  laugh  and  be 
merry  for  once.  Hector'  (with  a  wry  face)  "  is  coming  back 
to-morrow.  Let  us  eat  and  drink,  for  to-morrow  we  die.  I 
suppose  my  father  lapses  into  his  usual  musical  slumber  after 
dinner,  unrestrained  by  your  ^^resence  ?" 

"  Until  half-past  nine,"  I  answer.  "  As  the  clock  chimes 
he  wakes  up,  and  then  we  play  chess  until  bedtime." 

"  Chess  !  Angels  and  ministers  of  grace  defend  us  !  And 
has  it  come  to  this?"  cries  Captain  Montagu,  so  tragically 
that  I  laugh  again.     "  Never  mind  :  he  shall  q-q  without  to- 


DIANA'S  STORY.  189 

night.  As  soon  as  he  is  oif  to  sleep,  we  will  steal  out  into 
the  garden :  it  will  be  a  heavenly  night.  I  will  smoke,  and 
you  shall  talk  to  me."  And  for  the  first  time  he  puts  on  the 
languid  caressing  voice  I  remember  so  well. 

"  Not  for  worlds  !"  I  cry.  "  I  have  played  myself  steadily 
into  Sir  Hector's  good  graces,  and  in  one  evening  I  should 
undo  the  work  of  a  week." 

A  frown  ruffles  his  smooth  forehead. 

"  Too  bad  !"  he  says.  "  Why  cannot  he  snore  on  as  usual 
until  bedtime,  and  let  us  enjoy  ourselves?  Never  mind" 
(whispering) :  "  I  will  bring  him  out  early  from  dinner,  and 
then  we  will  slip  out.  I  have  set  my  heart"  (smiling)  "  on 
seeing  the  moon  to-night,  and  with  you  too." 

A  guilty  throb  of  joy  goes  through  me.  At  this  moment 
the  baronet  comes  in.  He  greets  his  younger  son  with  some 
show  of  warmth :  even  he,  I  can  see,  is  under  the  influence 
of  that  winning  face  and  manner. 

"  Charlie  in  time  for  dinner!"  he  exclaims,  blandly,  address- 
ing me.     "  We  must  be  indebted  to  you  for  this,  I  think." 

"  I  have  been  doing  a  great  deal  of  duty  lately,"  says  Cap- 
tain Montagu :  "  give  that  some  of  the  credit,  if  possible, 
without  detracting  from  Miss  Carew's  share  of  it." 

My  lady  comes  in  at  this  moment.  She,  too,  has  bestowed 
unusual  care  on  her  toilette,  and  looks  like  some  rare  piece  of 
delicate  porcelain.  The  pale  silvery  satin  of  her  dress  shim- 
mers through  soft  lace,  her  fingers  glitter  with  diamonds,  there 
is  a  faint  tinge  like  the  heart  of  a  shell  in  her  cheeks. 

"  Mother,  you  look  positively  lovely  !"  says  her  son,  going 
up  to  her.  "  I  must  kiss  you,  to  see  that  you  are  real  and 
have  not  stepped  out  of  a  picture." 

As  they  stand  together,  the  delicate  high-bred  mother,  her 
fond  humid  eyes  turned  upwards, and  the  handsome  son,  his  face 
bent  down  to  her,  his  golden  moustache  brushing  her  check, 
it  seems  to  me  a  fairer  picture  than  any  I  ever  saw  framed. 


190  I-^OR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKK. 

"  Pshaw  !"  sneers  Sir  Hector :  "  I  never  saw  such  a  fellow  ! 
he  must  make  love  to  liis  own  mother  if  there  is  no  other 
woman  by." 

"  That  is  a  compliment  to  you,"  laughs  Charlie,  looking  at 
me. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Carew  is  Hector's  property,"  says  his  father. 

His  tone  is  half  joking,  half  authoritative,  I  do  not  like  it; 
the  indignant  protest  rises  in  my  cheek  ;  but  at  this  moment 
the  clock  chimes,  the  gong  sounds,  and  Simkins  appears  in 
the  doorway. 


CHAPTER    XX. 


DIANA  S   STORY. 


The  solemn  rite  of  the  day  is  over.  Dinner  is  never  a 
gregarious  meal  at  Alford,  although  to-day,  thanks  to  Captain 
Montagu,  it  is  far  more  cheerful  than  usual.  I  am  longing 
for  it  to  be  over,  thinking,  with  a  certain  guilty  secret  pleasure, 
of  the  stroll  in  the  moonlight  that  is  to  come  presently.  Day- 
light is  almost  gone ;  the  faint  silvery  light  is  rising  behind 
the  dark  trees :  in  half  an  hour  more  we  shall  be  out  together 
in  the  dewy  fragrant  night.  A  feeling  almost  akin  to  fear 
comes  over  me  :  I  tremble  at  what  I  am  going  to  do.  Why, 
I  wonder  ?  If  on  any  of  the  preceding  evenings  Hector  had 
asked  me  to  go  out  with  him,  I  should  have  gone  at  once, 
without  the  shadow  of  an  arriere-j^ensee  ;  but  to-night  I  feel 
as  if  I  were  about  to  commit  a  great  indiscretion.  Neverthe- 
less, I  mean  to  commit  it,  if  the  Fates  are  propitious.  Cap- 
tain Montagu,  holding  the  door  open  for  us,  whispers  softly, 
as  I  pass,  "  Remember !" 


DIANA'S  STORY.  191 

"  Eemember  !"  As  if  there  was  the  very  smallest  faintest 
chance  of  my  forgetting !  I  take  a  book  into  my  favorite 
corner;  but  I  cannot  read:  every  moment  I  glance  nervously 
at  the  clock,  which  ticks  so  slowly  to  night.  Lady  Montagu 
is  iinusually  wakeful :  she  even  takes  a  book.  I  give  myself 
up  miserably  to  disappointment, — this  half-hour  that  I  have 
longed  for  as  I  have  never  longed  for  anything  in  my  life  be- 
fore. Tears  are  rising  in  my  eyes ;  I  feel  my  mouth  quiver- 
ing. To  hide  my  face  I  put  my  book  before  it,  and  then  I 
say  dismally  to  myself,  "  It  is  not  to  be !"  A  soft  thud 
rouses  me.  I  glance  from  behind  my  screen.  The  book  has 
fallen  from  Lady  Montagu's  hands  ;  her  head  is  leaning  gently 
back,  her  eyes  are  closed,  and  there  is  hope  again.  It  is 
twenty  minutes  since  we  left  the  dinner-table ;  the  door  opens, 
and  the  gentlemen  appear. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  give  you  so  easy  a  victory  to-night,  I 
promise  you,"  says  Sir  Hector,  approaching  me,  for  I  am 
obliged  to  win  a  game  occasionally,  in  order  not  to  betray  my 
tactics. 

I  smile  as  pleasantly  as  I  can,  and  make  some  answering 
remark,  and  he  goes  to  his  accustomed  chair. 

Captain  Montagu  comes  up  to  me  and  whispers, — 

"  I  am  going  now.  I  will  wait  for  you  at  the  front  door. 
Do  not  be  long." 

He  is  gone,  and  I  am  holding  my  breath  to  listen  to  the 
first  incipient  snore  that  is  to  bring  my  release.  Oh,  blessed 
sound ! — welcomer  to-night  than  the  sweetest  melody  ever 
composed  by  Rossini  or  Mozart.  If  I  had  not  my  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  clock,  I  should  believe  half  an  hour  had  elapsed  be- 
f(jre  my  anxious  ear  caught  the  sound  ;  but  when  it  comes,  the 
dial  shows  it  to  be  four  minutes  exactly.  I  wait  another  min- 
ute, until  it  has  settled  into  a  regular  prolonged  snore,  and 
then,  softly,  tremblingly,  on  tiptoe  I  creep  towards  the  door, 
as  Jack  of  the  Beanstalk  did  when  he  went  to  carry  ofi"  the 


192  FOR    A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

giant's  harp.  Once  safely  outside  the  door,  I  fly  along  the 
corridor  to  the  front  door.  I  can  hear  the  beats  of  my  heart 
as  I  stand  looking  out.  A  slow  step  crunches  the  gravel.  In 
another  moment  he  sees  me,  and  quickens  his  pace. 

"  But,"  he  says,  looking  at  me,  "you  must  have  something 
more  on.  Eemeiubcr  it  is  only  May,  althtiugh  it  is  so  warm." 
And,  coming  in,  he  takes  his  mother's  black  lace  shawl  from 
a  peg  and  puts  it  round  me.  He  does  it  so  gently,  without 
ruffling  a  single  hair,  and  I  think  to  myself,  with  a  sort  of 
pang,  that  he  must  have  had  plenty  of  practice. 

"  You  don't  mind  my  smoking,  do  you  ?"  he  asks. 

As  if  I  minded  anything  that  gave  him  picture  ! 

The  moon  is  shining  out  full  now,  -transmuting  everything 
she  looks  upon  to  silver :  her  fair  face  is  mirrored  in  the  dark 
water,  and  lingeringly.  Narcissus-like,  she  seems  to  dwell  on 
her  own  loveliness. 

"After  all,"  says  Captain  Montagu,  breaking  silence  at  last, 
as  we  pace  together  under  the  broad  trees,  through  which  the 
silver  light  is  trickling, — "  after  all,  the  country  is  very  pleas- 
ant, especially"  (with  a  low  laugh)  "  when  one  has  a  charming 
companion, — and  a  good  cigar.  Under  present  circumstances, 
I  think  I  could  exist  here  a  long  time." 

I  do  not  make  any  reply,  for  no  appropriate  answer  occurs 
to  me  at  the  moment. 

"  The  worst  of  it  is,  it  won't  last  very  long,"  he  continues, 
with  an  accent  of  discontent.  "  Somehow,  pleasant  things  never 
do.  Hector  will  be  here  to-morrow.  "Tell  me"  (stopping 
and  looking  down  at  me  inquisitively),  "what  did  my  father 
mean  when  he  said  that  you  were  Hector's  property?" 

"  I  do  not  know  what  he  meant,"  I  exclaim,  the  eager 
crimson  mounting  to  my  cheek,  "  unless  it  was  that  he  was 
the  means  of  my  being  here,  which,"  I  add,  reluctantly,  "of 
course  he  was." 

"  Come  and  sit  down,"  he  says,  in  a  pleasantly  autlioritative 


DIANA'S  STORY.  193 

voice,  pointing  to  a  seat  under  a  big  tree;  and  I,  nothing 
loath,  obey. 

"  He  will  be  very  angry  when  he  comes  back  to-morrow  and 
finds  me  here,"  he  remarks,  thoughtfully,  as,  leaning  back,  he 
brings  the  full  light  of  his  handsome  eyes  upon  my  face,  in 
which  I  am  painfully  conscious  the  color  is  shifting  uneasily. 
"  He  is  as  jealous  as  Othello.  But,  upon  my  soul,  I  did  not 
know  you  were  here.  If  I  had,  I  do  not  think  I  should  have 
come." 

"  Thank  you,"  I  say,  with  some  indignation. 

"I  do  not,  really,"  he  repeats,  in  his  most  lazy,  most  caress- 
ing tone,  ignoring  utterly  my  displeasure.  "  You  know  I  never 
can  be  ten  minutes  alone  with  a  pretty  woman  without  wanting 
to  make  love  to  her.  I  feel  it  creeping  over  me  now  ;  and  I 
don't  think  it  would  be  right  towards  Hector." 

For  the  life  of  me,  I  cannot  help  laughing, — there  is  some- 
thing so  na'ive  about  his  confession,  and  the  way  he  makes  it. 

"  You  shouldn't  laugh  at  a  fellow  when  he  is  battling  with 
his  weakness  and  his  scruples,"  he  utters,  with  an  air  of  comic 
reproach.  "  You  see,  to  me  it  is  an  every-day  occurrence  to 
fall  in  love,  but  it's  a  tremendous  affiiir  for  Hector." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  I  exclaim,  impatiently, 
feeling  also  a  little  mortified,  and  rather  inclined  to  wish  I  had 
not  come  •  out.  "  Sir  Hector  will  be  waking  up  soon,  and  I 
must  go  and  set  the  chess-men." 

"  Do  not  go,"  he  says,  laying  a  detaining  hand  on  my  arm: 
"  it  is  so  delicious  here,  and  I  should  be  so  dull  if  you  were  to 
leave  me.  I  should  begin  to  hate  the  country,  and  to  wish  I 
had  not  come  immediately."  (Then,  irrelevantly),  "  Always 
wear  crimson  flowers  in. your  hair:  you  can't  think  how  well 
they  become  you." 

There  is  a  pause.  He  is  silent,  and  I  do  not  feel  inclined 
to  speak.  I  am  thinking  with  some  bitterness  how  eagerly  I 
looked  forward  to  this  half-hour  with  him,  and  how  little  en- 
I  17 


19-i  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

jojment  I  am  deriving  from  it.  Presently  he  throws  away 
the  end  of  his  cigar,  and  moves  nearer  to  me. 

"  I  want  to  ask  you  a  question,"  he  says,  softly.  "  I  know 
I  have  no  right  to  :  indeed,  I  think  it  is  very  bad  taste  on  my 
part;  but  I  am  an  inquisitive  fellow,  and  have  been  rather 
spoiled.  Tell  me"  (taking  my  hand,  and  fixing  his  eyes  on 
mine),  "  is  there  any  chance  of  your  ever  becoming  my  sister  ? 
I  always  wanted  a  little  sister  awfully.  Don't  look  angry" 
(reading  the  indignant  flush  in  my  face),  "  I  know  Hector 
is  in  love  with  you.  I  know  he  wants  to  marry  you ;  my 
mother  told  me  as  much  ;  he  will  tell  you  himself  very  soon, 
if  he  has  not  done  so  already ;  and  what"  (rather  eagerly) — 
"  what  shall  you  say  ?" 

An  undefined  sense  of  pain  steals  across  me  as  I  withdraw 
my  hand  from  his. 

"  Until  he  tells  me  so,"  I  answer,  drawing  myself  up  coldly, 
"  I  think  it  is  quite  superfluous  for  me  or  any  one  else  to 
speculate  on  my  reply." 

And,  drawing  my  skirts  away  from  him,  I  rise  to  go.  He 
springs  up  and  stands  in  my  path. 

"  No,"  he  says,  hurriedly,  "  upon  my  soul  you  shall  not  go 
away  angry  with  me." 

He  looks  so  handsome,  standing  before  me  with  a  slight 
flush  on  his  face  and  an  eager  look  in  his  eyes, — who  could  be 
angry  with  him  ?     I  smile. 

"  I  am  not  angry,"  I  say ;  "  but  I  do  not  think  you  should 
liave  asked  me,  on  your  brother's  account  even  more  than  on 
mine.  You  are  quite  mistaken.  We  are  very  good  friends, 
but " 

"  But  what  ?" 

"  Nothing  more." 

"  Nothing  more  ?" 

"  Nor  likely  to  be." 

"Nor  likely  to  be?" 


DIANA'S  STORY.  195 

"  I  wish,"  he  begins,  eagerly,  then  checks  himself,  and 
says,  almost  coldly,  "  Hector  is  a  good  fellow ;  he  is  very 
fond  of  you,  and  Alford  is  not  a  bad  place  to  be  mistress  of, 
is  it?" 

The  stable  clock  strikes  ten. 

"  Oh,"  I  cry,  terrified,  "  what  will  Sir  Hector  say  ?  Do, 
pray,  come  in  with  me  !" 

"  I  had  much  better  not,  for  your  sake,"  he  answers.  "  If 
we  go  in  together,  they  will  know  we  have  been  out  together. 
You  may  have  been  in  your  own  room, — anywhere.  I  sup- 
pose, tyrant  as  he  is,  he  cannot  expect  his  guests  to  sit  in  the 
drawing-room  all  the  evening  to  listen  to  his  snores." 

I  sneak  in,  feeling  terribly  guilty.  After  all,  how  little 
pleasure  I  have  had  out  of  that  stroll  which  I  looked  forward 
to  with  such  delight !  For  once  Fortune  favors  me.  Sir 
Hector  is  still  asleep,  and  only  wakes  up  as  I  enter. 

"  Bless  my  soul !"  he  cries,  jumping  up  with  alacrity  ;  "  why, 
I  am  twenty-two  minutes  over  my  time.  Why  did  you  not 
awake  me  ?" 

Ten  minutes  later.  Captain  Montagu  walks  in,  looking 
radiantly  unconscious,  and,  sitting  down  beside  his  mother, 
begins  a  whispered  conversation. 

"  It  is  utterly  impossible,"  says  Sir  Hector,  irritably,  "  to 
concentrate  one's  mind  on  the  game  whilst  you  and  your  son 
are  chattering  like  a  couple  of  magpies,  my  lady." 

"  Let  us  go  to  your  boudoir,  mother,"  I  hear  Captain  Mon- 
tagu whisper  ;  and  rising,  they  go  out,  leaving  us  at  our  dreary 
game.  It  requires  no  great  effort  of  genius  on  Sir  Hector's 
part  to  checkmate  me  to-night.  He  wins  three  games  honestly 
in  half  an  hour. 

"Not  at  all  your  usual  form,"  he  remarks.  "I  suppose" 
(jocosely)  "  your  thoughts  are  a  long  way  off  to-night — eh?" 
and  I  feel  vexed  in  my  soul.  ^ 

The  family  have  evidently  apportioned  me  to  Hector,  and 


19G  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

do  not  seem  for  an  instant  to  contemplate  the  possibility  of 
my  not  acquiescing  in  it. 

After  his  third  triumph  Sir  Hector  is  good  enough  to  let 
me  go.  I  wish  him  good-night,  and  go  slowly  and  not  very 
cheerfully  to  my  room.  Under  any  other  circumstances  I 
sho'uld  have  gone  to  her  boudoir  to  wish  Lady  Montagu  good- 
night ;  but  now  I  cannot.  I  do  not  choose  her  son  to  think 
T  am  running  after  him.  Lingeringly  I  pass  the  door  with  a 
faint  liojx;  that  it  may  open ;  but  they  are  talking.  I  catch 
the  smothered  sound  of  their  voices;  they  do  not  hear  me 
pass,  and  I  go  on  my  lonely  way. 

"  I  wish  he  had  not  come,"  I  say,  petulantly,  to  myself,  as 
I  put  my  candle  down  on  the  dressing-table  and  throw  myself 
info  the  big  arm-chair  beside  it.  "I  was  much  happier  be- 
fore. This  is  the  end  of  my  eager  anticipation  and  delight  in 
his  coming  !  Of  course  I  am  nothing  to  him  ;  did  I  not  tell 
myself  so  all  along?  And  yet — and  yet"  (unbidden  tears 
rising) — "  he  need  not  have  said  tliat  about  falling  in  love 
being  an  every-day  occurrence  with  him,  and  about  his  never 
being  ten  minutes  alone  with  a  woman  without  wanting  to 
make  love  to  her.  Is  it  possible"  (and  I  blush  to  the  very 
heart  at  the  bare  thought)  "  that  I  have  betrayed  the  pleasure 
I  feel  in  his  society,  and  that  he  thought  it  necessary  to  give 
me  a  friendly  warning?"  For  a  moment  I  almost  hate  him. 
Hector  is  not  so  handsome,  but  he  is  much  nicer,  I  say ;  but 
all  the  same  though  I  asseverate  it  strongly  I  do  not  believe 
myself.  Then  I  begin  to  think  uneasily  of  what  he  has  said 
about  Hector  wanting  to  marry  me.  It  is  not  true  ;  I  do  not 
believe  it ;  but  if  it  were  true  lie  had  no  right  to  speak  to  me 
about  it.  I  marry  Hector ! — no,  no,  no !  I  cry  to  myself, 
hotly.  He  is  very  kind  and  good — I  admire  and  respect  him ; 
but  to  marry  him — Never  ! 

I  wake  in  the  morning  with  the  same  sense  of  disappoint- 
ment ;  it  is  going  to  be  a  lovely  day  again,  but  somehow  I  do 


DIANA'S  STORY.  197 

not  feel  the  same  appreciation  of  its  beauties  that  I  did  yes- 
terday. 

Sir  Hector  and  I  sit  down  to  breakfast  together.  Of  course 
I  knew  perfectly  well  that  Captain  Montagu  would  not  be 
down  ;  so  it  is  rather  unreasonable  of  me  to  feci  so  chagrined 
at  seeing  his  empty  place.  Breakfast  is  only  half  over,  how- 
ever, when  the  door  opens,  and  he  comes  in,  looking  as  fresh, 
as  crisp,  as  clean  as  only  an  Englishman  can  look  (this  is 
naturally  an  opinion  derived  from  a  later  experience). 

"  What  ?"  says  his  father,  laying  down  his  knife  and  fork 
and  looking  utterly  amazed. 

"  Stood  still  to  gaze, 
And  gazing  blessed  the  scene," 

laughs  Captain  Montagu,  shaking  me  by  the  hand,  and  walk- 
ing to  the  side-board  to  make  a  selection  among  the  viands 
displayed.  "  This  is  one  of  the  '  queer  things  of  the  service,' 
eh,  sir?  my  appearing  in  the  early  dawn  before  the  dew  is 
oflF  the  grass.     All  owing  to  Miss  Carew's  charms." 

"  Wait  a  bit ;  wait  a  bit,"  says  the  baronet,  smiling  grimly. 
"  I  doubt  very  much  whether  you  will  turn  up  this  time  to- 
morrow morning." 

"  Make  hay  while  the  sun  shines,"  remarks  Captain  Mon- 
tagu, with  a  twinkle  in  his  blue  eyes,  as  he  comes  and  seats 
himself  on  my  left  hand.  "  Aprcypos,  sir,  how  do  the  hay 
crops  promise  this  year?" 

"  Devilish  bad  !  devilish  bad  !"  growls  Sir  Hector.  "  This 
confounded  weather  is  burning  it  all  up  ;  we  have  hardly  had 
a  drop  of  rain  these  two  months." 

I  glance  furtively  at  my  neighbor  from  behind  the  big  silver 
urn  ;  he  is  busy  with  his  breakfast,  and  I  can  take  in  every 
detail  of  his  appearance  without  being  detected.  How  hand- 
some ^he  is !  Men  always  say  it  is  quite  immaterial  what  a 
man  is  like,  provided  he  looks  like  a  gentleman.     I  don't  be- 

17* 


198  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

lieve  they  think  it,  though :  the  good-looking  ones  say  so  in 
ortler  not  to  look  conscious  or  conceited,  and  the  plain  ones 
for  reasons  too  obvious  to  need  explanation.  My  eyes  linger 
on  his  short,  crisp,  gold-brown  hair,  that  would  curl  if  it  were 
long  enough  (I  wish  men  had  not  such  a  mania  for  being 
cropped),  his  white  smooth  forehead  and  sun-bronzed  checks, 
the  straight  brows,  Greek  nose,  and  curved  lips  shaded  by  a 
soft  golden  moustache.  Nothing  escapes  me, — not  even  the 
pattern  of  his  shooting-coat,  the  snowy  shirt  striped  with  blue, 
the  thick  gold  rings  on  his  shapely  hands,  the  exquisite  per- 
fection of  his  filbert  nails.  I  dai'e  say  it  sounds  veiy  silly  to 
chronicle  such  things,  but  these  minutiae  do  make  a  difference 
in  a  woman's  estimate  of  a  man,  however  small  it  may  make 
one  look  to  own  it.  Sir  Hector  has  a  little  way  of  stalking 
out  from  breakfast  the  very  second  he  has  finished,  quite  un- 
mindful of  the  state  of  progress  to  which  any  one  else  has 
arrived.  Upon  this  occasion  I  am  rather  disposed  to  bless 
that  little  way  as  the  door  slams  behind  him. 

"  What  a  jolly  thing  it  must  be,"  says  Captain  Montagu, 
glancing  at  me  with  eyes  brimful  of  laughter,  "  to  be  untram- 
meled  by  any  sense  of  decency  or  civility  !  By  Jove  !  I  can't 
stand  this  any  longer."  And,  jumping  up  before  I  know 
what  he  is  about,  he  lifts  the  gigantic  urn  and  moves  it  from 
between  us.  "  Family  plate  is  respectable"  (resuming  his 
seat),  "but  in  this  instance  decidedly  in  the  way.  Now" 
(suiting  the  action  to  the  word)  "  I  can  look  at  you.  I  like 
to  feast  all  my  senses  at  once." 


DIANA'S  STORY.  199 


CHAPTER    XXL 

Diana's  story 

m 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  Eosherville  ?"  asks  Captain  Mon- 
tagu. 

"  No,"  I  answer,  rather  wondering  at  his  irrelevancy. 

"  Rosherville,"  he  proceeds,  in  an  explanatory  tone,  "  is 
*  the  place  to  sj^end  a  happy  day.'  If  you  had  ever  been  to 
London  you  would  have  seen  that  fact  advertised  conspicu- 
ously in  a  great  number  of  prominent  situations.  It  js  a 
place  to  which  the  lower  orders  resort  by  steamboat  in  the 
dog-days,  and  where  they  enjoy  a  singular  variety  of  amuse- 
ments and  a  singular  want  of  variety  of  food.  Now,  although" 
he  proceeds  (still  as  if  he  were  reading  from  Murray's  hand- 
book,— "although  in  this,  as  in  every  other  lespect,  Rosher- 
ville  and  Alford  are  two  places  about  as  unlike  each  other  as 
one  could  possibly  pitch  upon,  I  intend  the  effect  produced  by 
both  to  be  identical :  in  short,  I  mean  to  spend  a  happy  day. 
Will  you  help  me  ?" 

"  That  I  will,"  I  say,  still  smiling  at  his  tirade ;  then,  re- 
lapsing into  gravity,  I  add,  rather  wistfully,  "  It  is  so  nice  to 
be  happy." 

"  A  proposition  too  obvious  to  be  contradicted,"  he  laughs. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do?"  I  ask. 

"  Wha  am  /  going  to  do  ?  Positively,  literally,  nothing : 
it  is  to  be  one  unclouded  day  of  far  nicnte  for  me.  It  is  to 
yon  I  look  for  the  happy  day." 

"And  what  am  I  to  do?"  I  ask,  feeling  very  proud  and 
glad. 

"  First  you  are  to  repair  to  tho  small  drawing-room,  where, 


200  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

when  I  have  finished  this"  (taking  from  his  case  a  cigarette), 
"  I  shall  join  you.  You  will  then  sing  to  me  the  songs  that 
my  soul  loveth  (I  see  your  store  has  greatly  increased  since 
the  winter),  until  you  are  quite  tired." 

"  Or  you  are,"  I  suggest,  with  a  smile. 

"  Until  7/ou  are  quite  tired,"  he  repeats.  "Then — then  we 
will  go  and  bask  in  the  sunshine,  and  watch  the  carp  jump, 
and  hear  the  birds  sing ;  and  if  we  feel  inclined  we  will  talk, 
and  if  not,  we  will  be  silent.  We  won't  argue;  we  won't 
have  a  single  word  but  what  is  sweet  and  harmonious.  If  I 
choose  to  tell  you  pleasant  truths,  you  shall  not  contradict  me  ; 
and  as  for  Hector"  (gJ^yly),  "  Hector  shall  not  exist  for  you* 
and  me  the  whole  livelong  day  until  dinner-time." 

I  go  as  he  has  bidden  me  to  the  drawing-room  and  look  out 
all  my  prettiest  songs,  thinking  a  little  remorsefully  the  while 
that  it  is  to  his  brother  I  am  indebted  for  most  of  them.  I 
lay  them  one  by  one  on  the  desk,  "  Golden  Days"  on  the  top. 

"  Now,  "  he  says,  coming  in  and  preparing  himself  the 
cosiest  chair  in  the  room,  as  he  did  once  on  a  previous  occa- 
sion. "  By  the  way,  do  I  at  all  remind  you"  (with  smiling 
eyes)  "  of  my  father  ?  It  just  struck  me  that  I  had  been  lay- 
ing down  the  law  a  little  bit  in  his  style.  Family  likeness 
will  crop  up  in  odd  ways.  Apropos  of  that,  is  not  Hector  a 
most  wonderful  counterpart  of  the  old  gentleman  ?" 

"  No,"  I  say,  turning  myself  round  on  the  music-stool, 
resolved  to  be  just  towards  him  in  his  absence,  all  the  more 
because  I  am  guiltily  glad  of  it.  "  I  do  not  think  ho  is  at  all, 
realli/:' 

"  All  right"  (languidly).  "  You  remember  the  compact. 
No  arguing  allowed.  Upon  my  soul"  (his  lip  curving  with  a 
suspicion  of  merriment),  "  I  never  saw  two  people  more  dis- 
similar, now  I  come  to  think  of  it.  The  only  wonder  is  how 
they  ever  came  to  be  father  and  son." 

I  cannot  help  laughing. 


DIANA'S  STORF.  201 

"  Hush  !"  I  say.     "  I  am  going  to  begin." 

"  What  is  it  to  be  ?" 

"  '  Golden  Days.'  " 

'"Golden  Days!'  By  Jove!"  (jumping  up)  "the  very 
song  of  air  others  I  love.  And  what  a  happy  thought  for  to- 
day, too  !  '  Once  in  the  days  of  golden  weather.'  This" 
(stooping  over  me)  "  shall  be  a  golden  day,  shall  it  not?" 

Our  eyes  meet,  a  tremulous  thrill  of  pleasure  creeps  through 
me,  then  he  turns  away  abruptly  and  resumes  his  seat.  I  sing 
on  and  on,  and  he  listens  with  closed  eyes,  as  he  did  that  day 
at  Warrington. 

"  I  am  tired,"  I  say,  at  last,  getting  off  my  stool. 

"  Are  you  ?"  (jumping  up).  "  What  a  selfish  brute  I  am  ! 
How  shall  I  thank  you  !"  (taking  my  hand  and  kissing  it  in 
his  own  gracious,  caressing  manner).  "  The  first  hour  of  the 
golden  day  is  gone"  (regretfully) ;  "  how  it  has  flown  !" 

"  Lady  Montagu  will  be  coming  down  very  soon  now,"  I 
suggest. 

"  Poor  mother !  I  did  not  tell  you  before :  I  thought  it 
would  take  the  heart  out  of  your  singing.  She  has  one  of 
her  frightful  headaches  :  while  they  last  she  cannot  raise  her 
head  from  the  pillow  nor  bear  the  sound  of  a  voice." 

"Why  did  you  not  tell  me  before?"  I  cry,  remorsefully. 
"  Perhaps  she  may  have  been  disturbed  by  my  singing." 

"  Quite  impossible,  I  assure  you.  Why"  (reproachfully), 
"  you  don't  think  I'm  such  a  brute  as  to  run  the  risk  of  mak- 
ing her  worse  for  my  own  selfish  gratification,  do  you?" 

I  utter  a  hasty  dissent. 

"  Get  your  hat  and  let  us  go  out."  And  I  obey  silently, 
as  I  did  in  the  matter  of  the  music.  "  I  have  had  two  com- 
fortable chairs  taken  out,"  he  tells  me,  as  I  join  him  in  the 
liall.  "  I  abhor  the  abominations  called  garden-seats.  They 
don't  in  the  least  give  to  the  gentle  undulations  of  the  figure 
in  repose.  I  have  selected  a  charming  spot  near  the  water, 
I* 


202  FOR  A    WOMAN\S  SAKE. 

and  wc  will  be  tranquilly  oblivious  of  everything  but  the 
moment,  like  the  lotos-eaters." 

We  stroll  gently  along  until  we  come  to  a  big  chestnut, 
under  which  stand  two  inviting  chairs. 

I  feel  as  blithe  as  a  bird  this  morning.  All  doubt  and  dis- 
appointment have  vanished  from  my  heart,  like  last  night's 
dew  before  the  sun.  Life  is  once  again  a  God-given  gift,  to 
be  made  the  most  of  this  fair  day.  For  a  little  while  we 
are  both  silent,  whilst  we  drink  in  lovingly  the  morning's 
beauty.  The  warm  west  wind  breathes  tenderly  through  the 
branches,  wafting  towards  us  the  heavy  scent  of  the  sweet 
spring  blossoms.  Wayward  zephyrs  play  hide-and-seek  among 
the  cool  green  leaves,  that,  swaying  to  and  fro,  fan  our  faces 
softly.  A  whole  army  of  big  bees,  in  their  handsome  black 
and  orange  velvet  coats,  are  dipping  into  the  pink  hearts  of 
the  chestnut-blossoms,  and  booming  their  deep  sonorous  con- 
tent in  a  melodious  ear-lulling  chorus.  On  one  side  the  view 
stretches  over  a  great  expanse,  half  park,  half  meadow-land, 
all  golden-yellow  with  buttercups,  save  where  here  and  there 
thick-sti"ewn  daisies  make  a  galaxy  across  their  green  heaven. 
Clumps  of  trees  of  exquisitely-blended  shades  are  dotted  about, 
and  afar  off  is  the  long  belt  that  skirts  the  park,  rich  with 
every  subtle  tint  of  spring,  the  pale,  soft,  tender  green  of  bud- 
ding elm  and  oak,  the  chestnut's  full  rich  verdure,  the  sombre 
fir,  and  here  and  there,  scattered  between,  the  bronze  of  the 
copper  beech.  In  front  of  us  is  the  mimic  lake,  on  which  a 
flotilla  of  white  ducks  is  sailing,  looking  a  little  bit  like  small 
swans,  but  lacking  the  grace  and  dignity  of  those  majestic 
birds.  I  am  feeling  rather  sentimental :  the  warm  air,  the 
heavy  odors  wafted  towards  us  from  yon  flaming  sea  of  amber 
azalea,  the  deep  booming  of  the  bees  above  our  heads, — all 
these  things  have  an  enervating,  luxurious  effect  upon  my 
senses.  I  glance  furtively  at  my  companion,  to  see  if  he 
shares  my  feelings.     He  is  reclining  luxuriously  in  the  low, 


DIANA'S  STORY.  203 

long  chair ;  his  hat  has  fallen  off  backwards  on  the  grass,  and 
the  little  sunbeams  are  glinting  in  through  the  broad  leaves, 
making  golden  streaks  across  his  hair.  Through  half-closed 
eyelids  he  is  looking  sleepily  at  the  water ;  his  face  wears  a 
pensive  look :  yes,  he,  like  me,  feels  the  warm,  sensuous  effect 
of  this  May  morning.  He  is  about  to  speak :  if  he  breaks 
this  golden  silence,  it  must  surely  be  with  some  poetic  thought. 

"  I  would  give  a  gi-eat  deal  at  this  moment  for  a  pea-shooter 
and  a  bag  of  peas,  to  aim  at  those  ducks  standing  on  their 
heads.     How  surprised  they  would  be  !" 

This  is  the  sentimental  remark  for  which  his  lips  unclose. 
My  romance  is  swept  away.  I  laugh.  Now  he  mentions  it, 
there  is  certainly  something  very  tempting  about  their  position 
as  they  stand  literally  upon  their  heads,  in  quest  of  hidden 
treasures.  We  amuse  ourselves  by  watching  them,  until  they 
scramble  awkwardly  up  on  the  bank  and  spread  themselves 
out  for  a  nap  in  the  sunshine. 

"  By  Jove  !"  exclaims  my  companion,  as  a  monstrous  carp 
flings  a  somersault  out  of  the  water  and  splashes  back  with  as 
much  noise  as  a  retriever  plunging  in  off,  the  bank,  "  the  fish 
seem  pretty  lively  this  morning.     There  goes  another !" 

There  is  a  great  swirling  and  plashing  and  bubbling  among 
the  lily  leaves.  Now  and  then  we  see  gleaming  golden  sides 
tossing  above  the  water  as  the  big  fish  dart  through  the  glassy 
water  in  hot  pursuit  of  each  other. 

Captain  Montagu  signals  a  passing  gardener.  "  Bring  me 
a  landing-net,  will  you  ?"  he  says. 

The  man  hurries  off,  and  presently  returns  with  one. 

"  Now  I  am  going  to  fish,"  remarks  my  companion,  rising 
and  walking  cautiously  towards  the  bank.  A  moment  later 
he  plunges  it  in,  and  brings  it  out  again  with  three  monstrous 
shining  fish  struggling  in  it. 

"  Fishing  made  easy  !"  he  says,  laughing. 

"  Oh,  put  them  back  !"  I  cry,  eagerly,  as  he  lays  them  pant- 


204  FOR   A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

ing  on  the  bank ;  "  do  put  them  back :  they  are  not  good  to 
eat.     Don't  let  the  poor  things  die  out  here  !" 

"What  a  tender-hearted  Uttle  soul  it  is!"  he  says,  looking 
amused.  "  Now"  (contemplating  them),  "  if  our  cordon  bleu 
here  had  only  one  of  the  receipts  for  dressing  them  that  those 
old  monks  possessed,  I  could  not  possibly  grant  your  prayer, 
being  a  tremendous  gourmet ;  but " 

"  Let  them  be  happy  '  this  golden  day,'  "  I  plead,  looking 
up  at  him. 

"  Here  goes !"  he  says,  flinging  them  back  with  a  great 
souse  ;  and  they  dart  off,  apparently  fully  aware  what  a  narrow 
escape  they  have  had.  "  I  can't  help  thinking,"  he  remarks, 
reflectively,  "  that  in  those  days  when  carp  were  esteemed  such 
a  delicacy,  they  could  not  get  salmon  or  mullet." 

"  I  never  tasted  one,"  I  say. 

"  Take  the  advice  Punch  once  gave  to  intending  Benedicts : 
'Don't.'" 

We  have  resumed  our  comfortable  chairs  under  the  chestnut- 
boughs.  I  suddenly  bethink  myself  that  I  have  omitted  to 
thank  him  for  his  munificent  donation  to  my  poor  people  last 
winter. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  I  begin,  rather  uneasily,  "  you  must  have 
thought  me  very  ungrateful  for  not  thanking  you  for  the  ten 
pounds  you  sent  me.  You  don't  know  what  good  it  did,  and 
liow  the  people  thanked  and  blessed  you." 

I  blurt  my  words  out  hurriedly  and  eagerly,  whilst  he 
regards  me  with  an  expression  of  comic  terror. 

"  You  are  positively  becoming  excited,"  he  says.  "  Have 
you  forgotten  there  is  to  be  no  emotion  this  morning, — nothing 
but  the  most  perfect  tranquillity  ?" 

"  You  may  try  and  turn  it  off,"  I  say,  warmly,  "  but  I  shall 
tell  you  all  the  same.  I  think  it  is  very  selfish  of  people  to 
do  kind  actions  and  then  refuse  to  be  thanked  for  them." 

"'People'  means  me,  I  suppose?"  he  utters,  lazily.     "Go 


DIANA'S  STORY.  205 

on"  (witli  an  air  of  resignation)  ;  "  tell  me  all  about  it, — liow 
many  night-caps  and  flannel  petticoats  you  bought  for  the  old 
women,  and  what  you  laid  out  on  snuff  and  tobacco  for  the  old 
men." 

"Do  be  serious,"  I  say,  reproachfully.  "If  you  could  only 
dream  the  good  it  really  did !  I  should  like  to  tell  you  one  case. 
Poor  Atkins  had  been  out  of  work  for  weeks  from  hurting  his 
hand  ;  two  of  the  children  had  scarlet  fever;  and  they  had  not 
a  morsel  of  food  in  the  house,  when " 

"  Don't  harrow  up  my  feelings  !"  he  interrupts,  imploringly, 
taking  out  his  pocket-handkerchief. 

"It  is  too  bad  of  you  to  laugh  at  me !"  I  cry,  feeling  vexed. 

"  A  change  of  air  and  scene  will  be  good  for  us  both," 
he  says,  rising  promptly,  and  stretching  out  a  hand  to  me 
"  Come,  and  1  will  take  you  into  the  wood." 

I  follow  him  as  he  bids  me,  and  say  no  more  about  the 
money.  We  stroll  along  past  the  fir-trees  and  out  through  a 
gate  into  the  wood.  Suddenly  we  pause  as  we  come  to  a  great 
open  space.  There,  spread  like  a  carpet  from  some  cunning 
loom,  grows  a  great  sea  of  primroses,  of  wood-violets  and  dark 
hyacinths  mingled  with  rich  emerald  green. 

"  Groves  that  looked  a  Paradise 
Of  blossom,  and  sheets  of  hyacinth 
That  seemed  the  heavens,  upbreaking  through  the  earth." 

He  points  to  a  felled  tree,  and  we  sit  down  and  let  our  eyes 
range  feastingly  around. 

"  After  all,"  says  my  companion,  thoughtfully,  with  an  air 
of  conviction,  "  the  country  has  its  pleasures  even  out  of  the 
hunting  and  shooting  seasons.  Do  you  know"  (solemnly, 
looking  at  me  impressively,  as  though  he  is  not  sure  I  shall 
believe  him  without  a  great  deal  of  asseveration)  "  I  do  not 
think  I  ever  spent  a  happier  morning  than  this  in  my  life?" 

"  I  am  sure  I  never  did,"  I  say,  truthfully,  but  sighing  a 
18 


206  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

little  as  I  remember  how  short-lived  our  happiness  is  doomed 
to  be.  I  fancy  I  hear  him  sigh  too.  He  takes  out  his 
watch. 

"It  is  half-past  twelve,"  he  remarks,  with  an  accent  of  dis- 
gust, "  and  they  lunch  at  one.     How  the  time  has  flown  !" 

Silence  reigns  for  a  few  minutes  ;  then  he  stretches  out  his 
hand  towards  me,  and  brings  the  full  light  of  his  dark-blue 
eyes  to  bear  on  mine.  I  endure  it  for  a  moment,  and  then 
mine  droop,  but  my  hand  still  lies  in  the  clasp  of  his.  1  feel 
no  strength  or  will  to  move  it. 

"  I  told  you,"  he  says,  presently,  "  that  we  were  not  to 
have  any  explanations  to-day,  did  I  not?  nothing  but  har- 
monious tranquillity.  I  ought  not  to  break  my  own  rules, 
ought  I?  But  tell  me"  (in  a  pleading  voice),  "you  are  not 
angry  with  me  now.  If  I  vexed  you  last  night,  you  have 
forgiven  me,  have  you  not?" 

"  There  is  nothing  to  forgive,"  I  answer,  trying  to  withdraw 
my  hand,  and  vexed  because  I  feel  the  tell-tale  colpr  mantling 
over  cheek  and  brow. 

"  If  you  forgive  me,  you  will  let  me  keep  your  hand,"  he 
says,  softly ;  and  all  this  time  I  feel  that  he  has  never  once 
taken  his  eyes  from  my  face.  It  is  dangerous  to  look  at  him ; 
my  heart  is  throbbing  wildly  even  now ;  but  I  cannot  resist 
the  charm :  some  unknown  force  compels  my  reluctant  eyelids 
upwards. 

"  'Tears  in  the  radiant  eyes,'"  he  whispers,  quoting  from 
our  favorite  song.  "  Oh"  (drawing  me  towards  him),  "what 
a  perverse  world  this  is!  Why, do  we  always  covet  just  those 
things  we  cannot  have  !" 

There  is  a  strange  ring  in  his  voice ;  he  has  risen,  and  is 
standing  with  one  arm  round  me.  For  one  ecstatic  moment 
I  droop  my  head  on  his  shoulder,  his  warm  breath  hovers  over 
my  cheek  and  ear;  then  I  break  away  from  him,  and  stand 
abashed,  trembling,  leaning  with  downcast  eyes  against  the 


DIANA'S  STORY.  207 

« 

trunk  of  a  big  tree.  He  follows  me  swiftly,  with  flushed  face 
and  eager  eyes. 

"  No,  no,"  I  say,  putting  out  my  hands  with  a  gesture  of 
repulsion,  whilst  my  heart  beats  with  furious  shame. 

He  stops. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  utters,  in  a  contrite  voice.  "  Don't 
be  afraid !  you  do  not  think  for  one  moment  I  would  say  or 
do  anything  to  displease  you.  I  lost  my  head  a  little  for  a 
moment.     Come,  let  us  go  towards  the  house." 

We  walk  on  side  by  side  untU  we  come  to  the  gate  that 
separates  the  wood  from  the  park :  there  he  stops. 

"  I  don't  know  what  possessed  me,"  he  says,  in  an  apologetic 
tone  ;  "  I  suppose  it  is  rather  dangerous  being  long  with 
a  young  and  very  pretty  woman.  Do  you  know,"  looking  at 
me  with  some  vexation,  "  I  am  half  sorry  I  came?  If  I  stay 
much  longer  I  shall  run  the  risk  of  making  a  fool  of  myself; 
and  that  would  be  unsatisfactory  to  myself,  as  well  as  unfair 
to  Hector." 

I  stand  staring  stupidly  before  me,  ignorant  how  to  reply. 
Hector  !  Hector  !  why  will  he  always  drag  him  into  our  talk  ? 
Hector  is  nothing  to  me!  I  feel  a  blind  unjust  repugnance  to 
him.     And  yet  I  cannot  tell  his  brother  this  !  it  might  make 

him  think  I  entertained  hopes what  folly  !    has  he  not 

shown  me  clearly  enough  that  I  can  be  nothing  to  him  more 
than  a  passing  fancy  ?  Seeing  that  I  make  no  reply,  he  opens 
the  gate  for  me,  and  we  pass  on  silently  to  the  house.  Half 
the  golden  day  is  gone:  is  it  golden  still  ?  I  hardly  know, — 
at  this  moment  it  seems  so  equally  made  up  of  sweet  and 
bitter.  When  I  reach  the  house,  there  is  only  just  time  to 
smooth  my  ruffled  hair  before  the  gong  sounds  for  lunch. 
Sir  Hector  offers  a  diversion, — not  an  agreeable  one  by  any 
means :  he  is  in  one  of  his  most  vindictive  tempers :  an  "  in- 
fernal fool  of  a  groom"  (luckless  wight !  how  I  pity  him  !) 
has  thrown  down  one  of  the  horses.     I  have  remarked  that 


208  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

when  a  horse  conies  to  grief  it  is  never  his  own  fault,  unless 
his  master  is  on  his  back :  the  grooms  always  throw  them 
doivn.  What  little  consolation  is  to  be  derived  from  dis- 
charging him  with  the  threat  of  no  character  Sir  Hector  has, 
but  it  is  all  insufficient  to  appease  his  wrath.  Everybody, 
everything,  is  wrong.  I  ask  after  my  lady's  headache.  He 
does  not  know  (snappishly)  :  all  he  knows  is  that  if  women 
will  lie  in  bed  half  the  day,  and  take  no  exercise,  and  eat  and 
drink  just  the  same,  it  is  no  wonder  they  have  headaches. 
Poor  Lady  Montagu,  who  has  the  smallest,  most  delicate 
appetite  conceivable  !  I  hazard  that  it  is  a  lovely  day,  and  he 
retorts,  with  a  growl,  that  it  may  be  a  lovely  day  for  a  parcel 
of  idle  people,  who  have  nothing  better  to  do  than  to  lie  about 
in  the  sunshine  like  lapdogs,  but  that  to  him,  with  the  grass- 
crops  shriveling  up  to  nothing,  it  is  simply  heart-breaking. 
Snubbed  savagely  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  retire,  feeling 
much  depressed,  to  the  contemplation  of  lunch.  Captain  Mon- 
tagu's eyes  are  on  his  plate  :  he  does  not  come  to  my  rescue, 
nor  does  he  attempt  any  original  remark  on  his  own  account. 

"  What  are  9/ou  going  to  do  ?"  Sir  Hector  asks  him 
presently,  in  a  snappish  voice. 

"  I,  sir  ?"  looking  up  imperturbably.     "  Nothing." 

"  Nothing  !"  with  a  growl.  "  I  might  have  guessed  as 
much.  Then  you  had  better  drive  over  to  Okewood  with 
rac." 

"  Much  too  hot,  sir,  thank  you  all  the  same  for  thinking 
of  me"  (with  a  little  twitch  of  his  flexible  upper  lip).  "  I 
might  get  a  sunstroke." 

"  Sunstroke  !"  retorts  Sir  Hector,  wrathfully.  "  Pretty 
fellows  you  Guardsmen  must  be,  to  be  afraid  of  a  May  sun  ! — 
very  fit  for  a  campaign  !" 

Captain  Montagu's  lip  twitches  more  than  ever,  and  I  am 
filled  with  nervous  dread  lest  he  should  actually  break  into  a 
laush. 


DIANA'S  STORY.  209 

"  It  is  by  taking  care  of  ourselves  in  time  of  peace,"  lie 
says,  with  a  wicked  glance  at  me,  "  that  we  are  able  to  come 
to  the  fore  when  the  country  wants  us." 

Sir  Hector  pushes  away  his  plate,  and  mutters  something 
that  sounds  like  "  A  parcel  of  blanked  puppies  !"  but  his  son 
does  not  seem  to  take  offense. 

"  Always  dangling  after  a  petticoat !"  is  the  next  growling 
amenity  ;  and  with  that  he  flings  out  of  the  room. 

"  Dear  old  man,  bless  him  !"  utters  his  son,  sweetly,  as 
the  door  closes  with  a  bang.  "  I  think"  (with  a  smile  that 
has  some  malice  in  it),  "  if  I  remember  rightly,  I  rathdr 
shocked  you  once  at  Warrington  by  not  going  into  rhapsodies 
over  the  mere  delightful  fact  of  having  a  father.  Perhaps 
you  look  at  the  matter  rather  more  from  my  point  of  view 
now." 

"  I  thought  all  fathers  must  be  like  mine,"  I  say,  naively. 
"  Certainly  he  is  rather"  (hesitating) — "  rather  tr9/m(^  ;  but  I 
suppose  one  ought  to  make  allowances  for  one's  father." 

"  I  wish  one's  father  would  make  one  more  allowance,"  he 
says,  laughing.  "  Come,  let  us  go  up  into  the  state  drawing- 
room  :  it  will  be  the  coolest  place  to-day.  I  wish  to  heaven 
Alford  belonged  to  me,  or  was  ever  likely  to :  what  rattling 
good  parties  I  would  have  here !"     And  he  sighs. 

We  mount  the  carven  stair-case  and  traverse  the  long  gallery 
lined  with  pictures.  There  are  niches  in  all  the  embrasured 
windows  which  look  out  upon  the  green  sea  of  turf  without, 
and  big  silver-bound  oak  and  marqueterie  cabinets  stand  within 
them,  while  quaint  carvings  and  curious  pictures  look  down 
upon  us  from  above.  Eastern  figures  as  large  as  life,  bearing 
lamps,  stand  on  either  side  of  the  five  steps  that  lead  to  the 
state  drawing-room. 

"  Those  grim  faces  used  to  frighten  me  into  fits  when  I  was 
a  child,"  says  Captain  Montagu,  as  he  gives  me  an  unnceded 
hand  to  help  n.e  up  the  low  easy  stairs.     "  Come  and  sit  in 

18* 


210  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

luy  favorite  seat"  (oi^euing  the  door  and  leading  me  towards 
the  window). 

I  am  half  afraid  of  another  tete-a-tete  with  him,  and  yet  it 
is  exquisite  liappiuess  to  be  alone  with  him,  to  hear  his  thrill- 
ing voice,  and  to  meet  the  glances  of  his  kind  eyes.  And  it 
will  be  over  so  soon  now  ! 

"We  shall  not  have  much  longer  together,"  he  says,  softly, 
as  if  divining  my  thought  from  the  half-reluctant  manner  in 
which  I  follow  him. 

"  No,"  I  answer,  with  a  long  sigh,  which  I  hope  is  only 
audible  to  myself 

So  we  seat  ourselves  on  the  low  couch  that  fills  up  the  deep 
mullioned  window,  and  for  a  little  while  neither  breaks  the 
silence.  He  is  looking  out  upon  the  greensward,  and  I  am 
contemplating  the  room  and  its  furniture, — from  the  dark 
polished  parquet  floor  to  the  painted  ceiling.  The  huge  carved 
chimney-piece  empanels  the  portrait  of  the  oldest  known  ances- 
tor of  the  Montagus  :  it  is  a  hideous  stiff  painting  by  Holbein, 
and  in  the  eyelashless  eyes  and  shadowless  face  I  amuse  myself 
by  finding  a  likeness  to  Sir  Hector. 

"  By  Jove,  so  there  is,  now  you  mention  it!"  laughs  Captain 
Montagu.  "  Tell  him  so.  If  a  man  could  be  flattered  and  un- 
flattered  in  a  breath,  I  should  think  such  a  remark  would  be 
calculated  to  inspire  that  paradoxical  sensation  in  him." 

"  /  tell  him  !"  I  echo,  laughing  too ;  "  not  for  the  world. 
I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  venture  another  remark :  my  con- 
versation shall  be  Yea,  yea,  and  Nay,  nay.  Not  even  the 
weather  is  a  safe  topic  with  him  to-day.  I  can  see  a  likeness 
to  you  there"  (pointing  to  a  full-length  portrait,  in  cavalier 
dress,  of  a  very  handsome  man). 

"  Thanks,"  he  answers,  making  me  a  little  bow.  "  That  is 
Sir  Rupert,  the  scapegrace  of  the  family." 

"  I  wonder  why  scapegraces  are  always  good-looking,"  I 
say,  reflectively. 


DIANA'S  STORY.  211 

Captain  Montagu  laughs  merrily. 

"  Perhaps  they  would  not  have  so  many  temptations  if  they 
were  not  endowed  with  certain  outward  advantages." 

"  That  is  true,"  I  think,  taking  him  au  serteux  and  heaving 
a  little  jealous  sigh. 

Then  he  relapses  into  silence,  and  I  let  my  eyes  wander 
round  again  over  the  portraits,  the  carved,  tapestry-covered 
couches,  the  quaint  seats  of  crimson  velvet  embroidered  in 
gold,  the  heavily-framed  mirrors  with  beveled  edges,  the  cabi- 
nets and  stools  and  sconces.  After  my  eyes  have  traveled 
carefully  round,  they  return  to  the  polished  parquet. 

"  What  a  floor  for  dancing  !"  I  utter,  regretfully,  breaking 
the  long  silence  at  last. 

^^ Apropos,^'  he  says,  jumping  up  and  holding  out  his  arms, 
*'  let  us  have  a  waltz." 

"  Without  music  ?"  I  ask,  doubtfully. 

"  We  will  sing  the  '  Blue  Danube'  until  we  are  out  of 
breath,"  he  answers,  gayly. 

Our  voices  mingle  in  that  thrilling  air,  his  arm  is  round  me, 
and  we  are  floating  deliciously  over  the  polished  floor.  Sud- 
denly we  stop  as  the  door  is  thrown  wide  open.  Hector, 
black  and  frowning,  is  confronting  us. 


212  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 


CHAPTER    XXI I. 

NOT   TOLD   BY   DIANA. 

The  pair  stop  dancing,  but  they  are  so  surprised  at  Hec- 
tor's appearance  that  for  a  moment  Captain  Montagu  still 
keeps  his  arm  round  Diana's  waist.  Hector  comes  forward 
trying  rather  unsuccessfully  to  cover  his  frown  with  a  smile, 
and  shakes  hands  coldly  with  Diana. 

"  I  did  not  know  you  were  coming,"  he  remarks,  pointedly, 
to  his  brother. 

"  Nor  did  I  until  yesterday  morning.  I  sent  a  telegram  ; 
but  I  suppose  you  had  left  before  it  arrived.  I  had  no  idea 
there  was  such  an  agreeable  surprise  in  store  for  me  as  finding 
Miss  Carew  here." 

Hector  looks  aggressively  disbelieving,  and  Diana,  feeling  a 
strange  unpleasant  awkwardness,  makes  excuse  that  she  will 
inquire  after  Lady  Montagu's  headache.  Hector  opens  the 
door  for  her  with  stiff  politeness,  but  his  eyes  seek  her  eagerly. 
She  says  "Thank  you"  without  looking  at  him.  He  closes 
the  door,  and  returns  to  the  window  where  his  brother  is  stand- 
ing, his  face  working  as  though  moved  by  no  pleasant  emotion. 
Charlie  is  drumming  imperturbably  on  the  window-pane. 
Hector  stands  for  a  moment  looking  at  him, — the  expression 
in  his  eyes  does  not  indicate  much  brotherly  afi'ection ;  then 
he  speaks  in  a  constrained  voice  and  with  apparent  effort. 

"  Is  it  a  fact  you  did  not  know  before  you  came  that  Miss 
Carew  was  staying  here  ?" 

"  It  is,"  returns  the  other,  still  playing  the  "  Blue  Danube" 
on  the  glass  with  much  apparent  interest  in  his  occupation. 

"  Oh  !"  replies  Hector,  shortly,  and  relapses  into  silence. 


NOT  TOLD  BY  DIANA.  213 

Charlie  carefully  finishes  his  tuue,  and  then  turns  to  con- 
front his  brother.  He  is  very  good-tempered,  he  hates  quar- 
reling and  argument  \  but  there  is  something  so  aggressive 
and  dictatorial  in  his  brother's  manner  that  he  cannot  well 
pass  it  over  as  if  he  had  not  remarked  it.  Moreover,  he  has 
a  guilty  feeling  of  not  having  done  quite  the  right  thing,  and 
that  feeling  makes  him  doubly  resentful  of  Hector's  behavior. 

There  is  just  the  least  increase  of  color  in  his  face  as  he 
turns  to  him  and  says,  deliberately, — 

"  I  did  not  know  Miss  Carew  was  here ;  but,  had  I  done  so, 
I  am  not  aware  that  it  would  have  been  any  reason  for  my 
staying  away." 

Hector  is  silent :  in  truth,  Charlie's  remark  is  not  an  easy 
one  to  reply  to. 

"  Ai'e  you  engaged  to  Miss  Carew?"  he  proceeds;  "be- 
cause, if  not"  (warmly),  "  it  strikes  me,  my  dear  fellow,  you 
are  giving  yourself  airs  of  proprietorship  that  are  rather  ab- 
surd, and,  to  say  the  least,  uncalled-for." 

Hector's  dark  brows  almost  meet,  and  he  clutches  angrily 
at  a  carved  chair-back. 

"  I  know  what  you  are,"  he  exclaims:  "you  can  no  more 
let  a  woman  alone  than"  (somewhat  at  a  loss  for  a  simile) — ■ 
"  than  a  dog  can  help  chasing  a  rabbit.  If  I  had  been  en- 
gaged to  her  ten  times  over,  it  would  not  have  hindered  your 
making  love  to  her  the  moment  my  back  was  turned." 

There  is  just  sufficient  truth  in  his  remark  to  make  it  un- 
palatable to  his  hearer. 

"  Well,  but  are  you  engaged  to  her?"  he  persists. 

"No,  I  am  not"  (shortly);  "but  I  dare  say  our  mother 
has  told  you  that  it  is  my  dearest  wish  to  marry  her,  and  that 
I  have  only  been  afraid  of  asking  her  for  fear  of  frightening 
or  repelling  her  by  being  in  too  great  a  hurry." 

"  Oh,"  returns  Charlie,  coolly  ;  "  and  when  you  have  pro- 
posed and  she  has  accepted  you,  am  I  to  understand  that  you 


214  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

expect  me  to  keep  me  away  from  Alforcl  altogether  ?  And  am 
I  to  be  the  only  victim  ?  or  Jo  you  propose  to  keep  every  other 
man  under  sixty  away  from  the  house,  for  fear  of  endangering 
your  peace  of  mind?  If  so"  (Charlie  has  lashed  himself 
into  most  unwonted  bitterness),  "  I  must  say  it  betrays  a  sin- 
gular want  of  confidence  in  your  own  powers  of  pleasing,  and 
the  future  Mrs.  Montagu  seems  likely  to  have  rather  a  lively 
time  of  it." 

Every  word  goes  home,  far  more  keenly  than  the  speaker 
has  any  idea  or  intention  of.  Hector  turns  fiercely  away,  and 
walks  to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  and  Captain  Montagu  re- 
sumes the  "  Blue  Danube"  where  he  left  oif. 

Hector  is  away  some  five  minutes ;  to  judge  by  his  face, 
an  intense  struggle  is  going  on  within  him ;  then  he  comes 
slowly  back  to  the  couch  on  which  his  brother  has  thrown 
himself  full  length.  He  takes  no  notice  of  Hector  :  with  his 
hands  under  his  head,  he  is  apparently  absorbed  in  contempla- 
tion of  a  fly  that  is  making  frantic  efi"orts  to  extricate  itself 
from  a  spider's  cunning  web.  Hector  evidently  wants  to  say 
something,  but  cannot  bring  himself  to  the  utterance :  he 
stands  for  a  moment  looking  at  his  brother,  then  takes  another 
hasty  turn.    This  time  he  plunges  desperately  into  his  subject. 

"  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,"  he  begins,  in  a  harsh 
tone. 

Charlie  brings  his  eyes  slowly  from  the  ceiling  to  his 
brother's  face,  and  Hector  cannot  but  own  in  his  heart, 
grudgingly  though  he  does  it,  what  a  handsome  fellow  he  is. 

"  I  dare  say  you  know,"  he  proceeds,  in  a  voice  quite  hoarse 
from  strangled  emotion,  "  that  I  have  never  been  in  love  be- 
fore in  my  life,  not  really  in  love.  I  have  never  cared  in- 
tensely for  a  woman,  never  thought  much  of  them  except  as 
toys  to  while  away  one's  idle  hours.  Well"  (pausing,  and 
finding  the  next  words  bitterly  hard  to  say),  "  my  whole  soul 
is  in  this.     Of  course  I  know  what  you  think  about  me :  you 


NOT  TOLD  BY  DIANA.  215 

think  I'm  a  cold,  liaid  sort  of  fellow  without  a  grain  of  senti- 
ment. /  haven't  frittered  away  my  heart"  (with  some  con- 
tempt), "  and  given  a  thousand  bits  to  a  thousand  diiferent 
women ;  so,  now"  (dropping  his  voice)  "  that  I  have  come  to 
love  at  last,  it  goes  rather  hard  with  me.  My  life  and  soul 
are  in  it"  (passionately)  ;  "  if  I  thought  I  should  lose  her,  my 
God  I"  (wildly),  "  I  don't  know  what  would  become  of  me." 

Charlie  has  risen  to  a  sitting  posture,  astonished,  almost 
shocked,  at  his  brother's  vehemence. 

"  My  dear  fellow "   he  begins,  but  Hector  cuts  him 

short. 

"  What  I  want  to  say  to  you  is  this.  She  is  nothing,  can 
be  nothing,  to  you :  you  don't  want  to  marry  her,  you  could 
not  if  you  did  :  for  heaven's  sake  do  not  come  between  us.  I 
know  you  have  some  wonderful  influence  over  women,  though" 
(roughly)  "  God  knows  what  it  is  except  your  good-looking 
face  and  soft  voice ;  but  I  ask  you,  I  entreat  you,  tire  first 
favor  I  ever  asked  of  you  in  my  life,  to  go  away  until  it  is  all 
settled.  Then"  (hesitatingly),  "  if  she  does  come  to  care  for 
me,  I  need  not  be  afraid  of  you,  nor"  (smiling  uneasily)  "  the 
whole  brigade  of  Guards  at  your  back." 

Charlie  is  very  weak  and  very  good-natured.  He  is  vastly 
taken  with  Diana ;  in  the  wood  that  morning  he  had  felt  him- 
self on  the  verge  of  falling  in  love  with  her ;  but  now  that 
his  brother  appeals  to  him  so  earnestly,  with  the  conviction 
also  staring  him  in  the  face  that  any  idea  of  marrying  her 
himself  would  be  utterly,  ridiculously  impossible,  he  behaves 
in  the  gracious  pleasant  way  that  is  the  key  to  the  charm  he 
exercises  over  people. 

"  My  dear  old  fellow,"  he  says,  holding  out  his  hand,  "  I 
did  not  know  it  was  such  a  serious  business.  Of  course  she 
likes  you;  of  course  she  will  have  you;  and  if  you  think, 
though  you  greatly  overrate  my  powers,  that  I  am  likely  to 
stand  in  your  way,  I'll  be  ofi"  to-morrow  by  the  first  train.    So 


216  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

now"  (gayly)  "  set  your  mind  at  rest.  I'll  go  off  and  have  a 
ride,  and  next  time  I  see  you  both  I  hope  to  say,  '  Bless  you, 
my  children !'  " 

Hector  grasps  his  brother's  hand  with  a  warmer  clasp  than 
he  has  done  for  many  a  long  day ;  and  so  they  part,  Charlie 
for  his  ride,  Hector  with  a  beating  heart  to  look  for  Diana. 
He  finds  her  presently  in  the  small  drawing-room.  She 
greets  him  with  a  cold,  civil  little  smile  as  he  comes  eagerly 
up  to  her.  In  her  heart  she  is  thinking  very  unkindly  of  him 
for  having  spoiled  her  tete-d-tete  with  his  brother. 

"Have  you  seen  my  mother? — is  she  better?"  he  asks, 
sitting  down  in  front  of  her. 

"  Her  head  is  better,  but  she  wishes  to  keep  very  quiet, 
that  she  may  come  down  to  dinner:  so  I  did  not  see  her." 

"  You  are  not  going  to  stay  in-doors  all  the  afternoon,  are 
you?"  he  says.     "  Won't  you  come  out  for  a  drive?" 

"  Hanks"  (coldly)  :  "  I  do  not  care  to  drive  to-day." 

She  fancies  that  he  wants  to  take  her  away  from  his  brother, 
and  resents  it. 

"  I  thought  you  were  so  fond  of  driving." 

"So  I  am;  but " 

"But  what?" 

"  I  do  not  care  to  be  always  driving"  (pettishly). 

"  Come  into  the  garden,  then,  or  let  me  row  you  in  the 
boat." 

She  assents  to  this,  thinking  Captain  Montagu  will  join 
them. 

As  they  cross  towards  the  water,  she  catches  sight  of  a 
mounted  figure,  and  her  heart  gives  a  little  indignant  throb. 

"  We  might  all  have  gone  out  riding,"  she  says,  in  a  tone 
whose  regret  is  extremely  apparent. 

"  Why  not  now?"  he  answers,  eagerly :  "  there  is  plenty  of 
time.     I  will  go  and  order  the  horses." 

She  pauses,  ii-resolute :  her  heart  has  gone  after  the  solitary 


NOT  TOLD  BY  DIANA.  217 

horseman,  but  she  feels  it  would  be  undignified  to  seem  to  run 
after  him. 

"  No,"'  she  sa^s  (shaking  her  head)  :  "  I  do  not  care  for  it 
to-day  :  it  is  too  hot." 

He  helps  her  into  the  boat,  and  rows  her  about  untiringly. 
She  is  vexedly  conscious  that  his  dark  eyes  are  fixed  upon 
her,  tmd  that  he  scarcely  ever  averts  them.  Hector  is  begin- 
ning to  love  her  idolatrously :  he  feels  as  if  he  could  never 
look  too  long  at  that  sweet  face,  with  its  clear  soft  color,  its 
red,  half-parted  lips,  its  lovely  fringed  eyelids.  Anon  his 
eyes  travel  to  the  pillar-like  throat,  so  creamily  white,  and 
the  slender  fingers  that  she  holds  over  the  boat's  side,  that 
the  cool  water  may  trickle  through  them.  He  cannot  but  see 
that  she  is  a  little  perverse  and  pettish  this  afternoon,  but  he 
loves  her  none  the  less  for  it,  only  it  sends  a  quick  pang 
through  his  heart  as  he  conjectures  the  cause.  But  when  lie 
is  gone,  he  tells  himself,  she  will  be  her  own  bright  self  ^gain, 
as  she  was  yesterday  (only  yesterday !  it  seems  a  week),  when 
she  wished  him  "  good-by"  at  the  station. 

Captain  Montagu  is  seen  no  more  until  dinnor.  Diana 
spends  nearly  an  hour  in  trying  to  look  her  fairest.  She 
goes  softly  down-stairs  ten  minutes  before  the  bell  rings,  but 
has  the  drawing-room  all  to  herself.  Captain  Montagu  does 
not  join  them  until  the  gong  has  sounded.  At  dinner  he  de- 
votes himself  to  his  mother,  who  is  well  enough  just  to  sit  at 
the  table ;  and  Hector  monopolizes  Diana  entirely.  She  is 
miserable :  she  longs  for  only  one  kind  glance,  but  longs  in 
vain.  She  looks  wistfully  across  at  him  many  a  time,  but  he 
seems  studiously  to  avoid  her. 

"  He  will  look  at  me  when  I  pass  him  after  dinner,"  she 
thinks ;  but,  though  he  rises  from  his  seat,  he  leaves  Hector 
to  open  the  door.  Lady  Montagu,  after  a  few  kind  words, 
goes  back  to  her  bedroom,  no^being  sufiiciently  recovered  to 
stay  up  longer,  and  Diana  is  left  to  herself  The  tears  spring 
K  19 


218  FOR   A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

to  her  eyes :  is  this  the  cud  of  "  the  golden  day"?  Iler  poor 
little  heart  is  quivering  with  the  stabs  of  Captain  Montagu's 
indifference  ;  she  longs  agonizingly  for  one  of 'those  looks  that 
he  was  prodigal  enough  of  this  morning.  And  for  one  wild 
foolish  moment  in  the  wood  she  had  fancied  she  might  be 
something  to  him.  She  has  forgotten  the  friendly,  pleasant 
liking  she  had  for  Hector  only  yesterday ;  a  passionate  anger 
against  him  is  creeping  into  her  heart ;  his  loYe  for  her,  which 
she  is  forced  to  see,  pleads  no  excuse  for  him  in  her  indignant 
disappointment.  She  thinks  of  last  night, — of  her  walk  in 
the  moonlight  with  Captain  Montagu.  She  has  forgotten  how 
little  pleasure  it  really  gave  her,  and  magnifies  the  delight  of 
it  a  thousandfold.  She  is  feverish  and  restless  :  she  feels  she 
cannot  sit  and  talk  to  Hector ;  she  will  be  forced  into  saying 
something  sharp  or  rude  to  him ;  and  as  for  chess !  no,  she 
cannot,  will  not  undergo  that  torture  to-night,  let  Sir  Hector 
think  or  say  what  he  will.  Let  him  be  angry !  her  fear  of 
him  is  swallowed  up  by  a  much  gTcater  emotion.  She  will 
plead  indisposition  and  go  to  her  room.  But  how  will  that 
be  better  ?  she  thinks,  forlornly.  She  cannot  sleep,  and  will 
have  cut  herself  off  from  all  chance  of  seeing  him.  She 
goes  to  the  window  and  looks  out.  The  moon  is  rising  in  all 
her  splendor  behind  the  dark  trees ;  her  pure  cold  light  is 
flooding  garden,  lawn,  and  lake  with  silver.  A  sudden  thought 
makes  Diana's  heart  throb.  She  will  go  out,  not  with  any 
thought  of  meeting  Am, — she  is  too  proud  for  that, — but  out 
in  the  clear  soft  stillness  of  the  night  she  will  not  feel  op- 
pressed as  she  does  here.  In  a  moment  she  has  opened  the 
door  and  is  rushing  along  the  corridor.  Many  pairs  of  eyes 
look  down  upon  her  from  the  carved  oaken  panels,  but  the 
lips  that  belong  to  them  can  tell  no  tales.  She  snatches  up 
the  lace  shawl  with  a  pang,  as  she  remembers  how  tenderly  he 
wrapped  her  in  it  last  night,  and  then  she  flits  hurriedly  away 
out  into  the  hush  of  the  radiant  night.     Unpremeditatedly, 


NOT   TOLD  BY  DIANA.  219 

unconsciously  almost,  she  takes  the  path  towards  the  wood, 
not  pausing  until  she  conies  to  the  gate  that  leads  into  it. 
Stopping,  she  leans  over  it,  her  soul  filled  full  of  the  bitter 
sweet  of  memory.  It  was  here  they  stopped  and  leaned  to- 
gether in  the  morning  of  the  golden  day  that  was  to  have 
been.  Golden  morning,  leaden  afternoon  !  she  thinks,  drear- 
ily. Diana  has  not  a  very  courageous  soul,  she  is  not  used  to 
lonely  night-wanderings,  but  to-night  she  feels  no  fear. 

"  I  will  go  into  the  wood,"  she  thinks,  "  and  sit  pn  the 
felled  tree  where  we  sat  this  morning."  And  thither  she 
goes. 

If  the  pale  primroses  were  fair  in  the  gold  sunshine,  they 
are  fairer  still  steeped  in  the  silver  moonbeams,  shining  out 
white  and  virginal  from  among  the  dark  clumps  of  hyacinths, 
too  dark  to  be  irradiated  by  the  pure  pale  light.  Diana  tries 
to  recall  the  memory  of  the  morning :  closing  her  eyes,  she 
sees  him  standing  there  before  her,  with  arms  outstretched  to 
her,  his  blue  eyes  looking  down  upon  her  full  of  love. 

"  Ah  !  but  he  is  used  to  look  like  that,"  she  tells  herself, 
desolately.  "  Did  he  not  own  that  he  could  not  be  ten  minutes 
in  the  company  of  a  woman  without  wanting  to  make  love  to 
her?" 

At  this  bitter  thought,  all  courage  and  hope  forsake  her, 
and  she  falls  to  weeping  piteously.  The  distant  click  of  the 
gate's  latch  arouses  her,  and  makes  her  heart  beat  with  Avild 
terror.  ^Vho  can  it  be  ?  She  is  fain  to  fly,  but  remembers 
that  she  does  not  know  her  way.  If  she  goes  towards  the 
house,  she  must  meet  whoever  it  is.  It  lua}'  be  a  poacher : 
he  may  murder  her,  she  thinks,  in  an  agony  of  fear.  Her 
quick,  frightened  ear  catches  the  sound  of  a  slow,  measured 
footfall :  it  does  not  sound  like  a  poacher's  tread  :  it  may  be 
Hector  come  to  look  for  her  ;  but  then  he  would  be  walking 
fast.  It  may  be — and  her  heart  beats  more  wildly  still — it 
may  be  his  brother,  bound  on   the  same  errand  as  herself. 


220  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

Another  minute  solves  the  doubt,  as  Captain  Montagu,  in 
evening  dress,  except  the  coat,  which  he  has  exchanged  for  a 
shooting-jacket,  bareheaded,  cigar  in  mouth,  strolls  leisurely 
into  view.  She  jumps  up  in  an  ecstasy  of  mingled  joy  and 
shame, — joy  at  being  with  him  once  more,  shame  at  the  recol- 
lection of  her  tear-stained  face.  He  sees  her,  and  utters  an 
exclamation  of  strong  surprise. 

"  Is  it  really  you  ?"  he  says,  coming  quickly  towards  her. 
"  Can  I  believe  my  eyes  ?" 

Diana  smiles  (it  is  not  hard  to  smile,  looking  back  into  those 
kindling  eyes),  and  stammers  a  little  lame  excuse. 

"  It  was  such  a  lovely  night,  the  room  was  warm,  and — 
and  I  don't  feel  equal  to  chess  to-night." 

He  has  thrown  his  cigar  away,  and  is  looking  at  her,  (Milk- 
ing how  fair  she  is,  knowing  she  has  been  crying  about  him, 
^wishing  he  had  not  made  that  promise  t(3  Hector.  He  had 
fully  meant,  he  does  mean,  to  keep  it :  has  he  not  come  out 
here  on  purpose  to  leave  the  field  clear  for  his  brother  ?  Is  he 
not  going  away  to-morrow  morning  by  the  first  train  (a  most 
awful  nuisance,  too,  getting  up  in  the  dead  of  night)  to  oblige 
him? 

But  Charlie  is  very  weak,  especially  about  women,  and 
Diana  is  very  fair  :  it  is  the  old,  old  story. 

"  And  I  came  out  here  on  purpose  to  avoid  you,"  he  says. 

The  words  are  not  flattering,  but  they  are  uttered  in  a  tone 
which  leaves  Diana  nothing  to  resent. 

"  I  can  go  in,"  she  answers,  making  as  if  to  leave  him.  He 
lets  her  go  three  paces,  and  then  cries, — 

"  Do  not  go." 

She  turns  and  stands  there  half  reluctant. 

"  Let  us  sit  down  together  where  we  did  this  morning,"  he 
whispers :   "  it  will  be  the  last  time  we  shall  be  together." 

"The  last  time?"  she  echoes,  with  a  startled  look. 
"Why?" 


NOT  TOLD   BY  DIANA.  221 

"  Because  I  am  going  away  to-morrow  by  the  first  train." 
Diana  looks  away  ;  a  great  knot  rises  in  her  throat,  the  pale 
clear  primroses  are  a  blurred  confused  mass  of  white  ;  for  all 
the  shame  of  it,  for  all  her  eager  desire  to  repress  them,  two 
great  shining  tears  will  gather  before  her  bright  eyes,  will 
stand  trembling  like  diamonds  on  the  sweet  lids,  will  fall  with 
a  little  plash  into  her  laj?,  and,  though  her  face  is  half  averted, 
he  sees  it.  Oh,  what  utter  irremediable  mischief  women's 
tears  have  worked  since  the  beginning  of  time ! 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

NOT   TOLD   BY   DIANA. 

A  STRUGGLE  takes  place  in  Captain  Montagu's  mind :  it  is 
short-lived.  He  has  never  accustomed  himself  to  conquer 
self,  it  has  always  been  so  pleasant  to  act  on  the  impulse  of 
the  moment,  and  very  rarely  in  his  life  has  it  been  followed 
by  unpleasant  consequences  for  him.  It  is  unfair  after  his 
promise  to  be  sitting  here  now,  it  is  as  unfair  to  Diana  as  to 
Hector,  and  yet  on  this  fair  warm  night,  with  the  sweet  spring 
scents  filling  his  senses,  with  the  amorous  song  of  the  nightin- 
gale thrilling  through  the  soft  night  air,  with  the  proximity 
of  a  fair  and  loving  woman,  he  is  morally  incapable  of  jump- 
ing up,  as  he  knows  he  ought  to  do,  and  walking  off  briskly 
in  the  opposite  direction.  The  knowledge  of  its  being  wrong 
makes  the  temptation  sti-onger  still.  But  how  could  he,  he 
told  himself  afterwards,  when  it  was  too  late,  see  her  in  dis- 
tress and  not  attempt  to  soothe  her  !  In  distress  for  him, 
too  !     It  would  have  been  simply  brutal. 

"  Darling,"  he  whispers,  stealing  one  arm  round  her,  and 
drawing  her  head  on  to  his  shoulder,  "  don't  let  me  sec  teara 

19- 


222  I^OR  A    ]V03IAN'S  SAKE. 

in  those  dear  eyes!"  As  he  sees  two  more  impendmg,  he 
bends  down  and  kisses  them  away.  She  leaves  her  head 
where  he  has  laid  it ;  she  is  very  young,  very  innocent,  she 
has  not  been  brought  up  with  strict  cautions  about  the  pro- 
prieties ;  the  heroes  of  her  books  have  always  kissed  the 
heroines  (at  parting  from  them,  or  on  some  supreme  occasion 
like  this),  and  for  the  most  part  the  heroines  have  taken  it  as 
she  is  doing  now,  happily,  unresistingly.  She  is  not  overtaken 
by  a  paroxysm  of  indignant  virtue,  as  perhaps  a  well-tutored 
young  lady  would  have  been,  because  her  mind  is  too  pure  to 
think  any  harm.  It  would  have  seemed  horrible,  loathsome, 
to  her  to  have  been  kissed  by  a  man  whom  she  did  not  love ; 
but  here,  where  all  her  heart  is  given,  it  does  not  seem  wrong, 
— not  even  unnatural. 

Captain  Montagu,  having  made  no  resistance  to  temptation, 
is,  as  happens  to  most  of  us,  swept  away  by  it  altogether. 

"  My  darling,"  he  cries,  the  warm  blood  stirring  in  his 
veins,  finding  her  doubly  dear  because  he  knows  she  cannot, 
be  his,  "  do  you  think  I  can  give  you  up  without  a  struggle? 
Only  this  time  last  night  I  had  no  more  thought  of  loving  you 
than  I  had  of  flying,  and  now  to-night  I  feel  as  if  parting 
with  you  was  like  parting  with  my  heart's  blood."  Her  lips 
are  so  near  to  his,  how  can  they  help  but  meet  ?  Then  she 
draws  herself  away  from  him,  and,  sitting  upright,  pushes  back 
her  hair  with  a  confused  motion.  She  is  silent,  but  her  heart 
is  saying,  wildly,  "  He  will  not,  he  cannot  leave  me  now." 

But  he  too  has  pulled  himself  together ;  he  has  been 
through  scenes  something  of  the  kind  before,  and  he  feels 
that  he  must  make  an  eifort,  or  the  witchery  of  the  night  and 
this  fail  girl  may  plunge  him  into  an  act  of  folly  that  will 
bring  a  life-long  repentance.  It  is  bitterly  hard  to  be  practi- 
cal under  present  circumstances.  If  Diana  had  been  town- 
bred,  if  she  had  mixed  in  society,  it  would  have  been  un- 
necessary to  attempt  any  explanation  as  to  the  impossibility  of 


NOT   TOLD   BY  DIANA.  223 

their  thinking  of  marriage  ;  but  she  is  a  simple  unsophisticated 
girl  (however  sweet  and  dear),  who  knows  nothing  of  the 
world's  ways,  and  who,  worst  of  all,  is  accustomed  to  com- 
parative poverty.  Feeling  and  expediency  are  equally  mixed 
as  he  says  (hating  himself  the  while  for  saying  it), — "  I  never 
in  my  life  cared  for  a  girl  before  as  I  do  for  you.  I  never 
dreamed  of  marrying  except  as  a  means  of  paying  my  debts 
and  launching  me  afresh  in  the  world ;  but  I  swear  to  you  it 
gives  me  the  most  horrible  pain  that  I  cannot  ask  you  to  be 
my  wife." 

"I  know,"  she  answers,  hurriedly,  though  a  pang  shoots 
through  her  breast,  but  wanting  to  save  him  the  pain  of  a 
confession, — "  I  know  it  is  quite  impossible.  I  never  thought 
of  anything  of  that  sort.  If"  (drooping  her  sweet  face  in 
shame),  "  if  I  might  think  you — you  liked  me  a  little." 

"  Liked  you  !"  cries  the  young  man,  passionately :  "what 
a  poor  little  miserable  cold  word  !  Think  and  be  quite  sure 
that  I  love  you,  and  that  I  would  give  my  right  hand  to  make 
you  mine." 

Diana  looks  up  into  his  face  with  radiant  eyes. 

"  I  shall  not  mind  anything  now  I  have  heard  you  say 
that,"  she  says,  innocently :  "  it  will  be  enough  to  live  on  all 
the  rest  of  my  life." 

"  Oh,  darling  !"  he  utters,  remorsefully,  taking  her  hand  in 
his,  "  why  do  you  make  me  feel  such  a  brute  ?  How  can 
you  care  for  such  a  miserable,  selfish  fellow  as  I  am  ?  Why, 
even  now  this  moment,  lovinc  you  as  I  do"  (moved  to  the 
confession  by  a  worthy  sense  of  shame),  "  do  you  not  see  that 
I  am  sacrificing  you  to  my  selfishness  in  the  most  hateful, 
cold-blooded  way  ?" 

"  Hush  !"  she  says,  laying  her  slim  fingers  on  his  lips  ;  "do 
not  breathe  a  word  against  yourself;  it  would  be  the  only 
thing"  (with  loving  eniphasisj  "  you  could  say  that  I  should 
not  believe." 


224  FOR   A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

Her  sweetness,  her  fairness,  her  love,  rise  up  before  him, 
and  overcome  all  which  prudence,  worldliness,  and  selfishness 
had  whispered  to  him  before. 

"  My  sweet !"  he  cries,  catching  her  in  his  arms,  "  I  can,  I 
will  give  up  everything  in  the  world  for  your  sake,  if  you  can 
put  up  with  me  as  I  am." 

She  yields  for  one  moment  to  his  passionate  embrace  ;  then, 
with  a  sigh,  she  withdraws  herself  gently  from  his  binding 
arms. 

"  Do  you  think,"  she  says,  laying  one  slim  white  hand  on 
his  arm,  and  fixing  her  shining  eyes  upon  his  passion-wrought 
face, — "do  you  think  I  love  you  so  little  as  that?  No,  no, 
no  1  it  is  very  generous  of  you,  but  it  is  impossible.  I  know 
it  even  better  than  you  do." 

Her  words  stab  him.  He  generous !  he  feels  intensely, 
more  intensely  than  he  has  ever  felt  anything  in  his  life,  how 
selfish  and  ignoble  his  conduct  has  been.     He  feels  in  truth 

"  There  is  no  after-pang 
Can  deal  that  vengeance  on  the  self-condemned 
He  deals  on  his  own  soul." 

Yet,  even  now,  as  he  dwells  upon  her  fairness  and  thinks  it 
will  be  Hector's,  not  his,  he  grudges  her  bitterly  to  him. 

"  What  unlucky  chance  brought  us  out  here  together  to- 
night?" he  says,  miserably.  "  I  had  resolved  not  to  put  my- 
self in  the  way  of  temptation  again,  and"  (half  to  himself)  "  I 
had  given  him  my  word." 

"What?"  cries  Diana,  with  kindling  eyes,  catching  the 
words  and  understanding  them  all  too  well. 

"  What  is  the  use  of  mincing  matters  ?"  he  says,  moodily, 
leaning  against  the  stalwart  oak  trunk  through  whose  as  yet 
sparsely-filled  branches  the  moonbeams  glint  on  the  workings 
of  his  fiice.  "  You  know  that  Hector  loves  you,  you  know 
he  wants  to  marry  you,  and"  (bitterly)  "in  time  of  course 


NOT   TOLD   BY  DIANA.  225 

you  will  marry  him.  He  is  young  enougli,  lie  is  not  bad- 
looking,  he  is  devoted  to  you,  and  all  this"  (with  a  little  wave 
of  his  hand)  "  will  be  his." 

Speaking,  Captain  Montagu  takes  some  little  credit  to  him- 
self that,  however  reluctantly,  with  however  ill  a  grace,  he  is 
still  pleading  his  brother's  cause.  If  it  were  possible  for  scorn 
to  creep  into  so  great  a  love  as  Dian£|,'s,  it  glances  for  one  mo- 
ment upon  him  from  her  flashing  eyes.  But  as  she  looks  upon 
that  dear  face  it  dies  out. 

"  Do  not,"  she  whispers,  softly ;  "  you  hurt  me.  If  you 
cared  ever  so  little  for  me  you  could  not  bear  to  think  of  my 
belonging  to  him.  I  know  nothing  of  love"  (looking  at  him 
with  clear  steadfast  eyes),  "  but,  oh,  I  know,  I  feel  that  by  a 
sort  of  instinct." 

"You  are  right,"  he  says,  catching  at  her  hand.  "  I  hate 
the  thought  like  death.  Well"  (eagerly),  "  say  the  word,  take 
me  for  worse  and  for  poorer,  and  then  I  shall  not  have  to 
think  of  giving  you  up  to  any  one." 

She  is  only  a  child,  a  child  without  experience,  but  she 
knows,  even  if  he  thinks  it  for  the  moment,  that  he  is  not  in 
earnest  about  iC,  that  if  she  yielded  he  would  regret  it  even 
to-night.  If  the  sacrifice,  the  self-abnegation,  had  been  for 
her  in  the  future,  would  she  not  have  consented  joyfully,  with- 
out a  fear,  without  a  pang  ?  But  it  would  be  on  his  part ;  and 
she  knows,  without  its  detracting  from  her  love  for  him  one 
whit,  that  he  would  grudge  the  sacrifice  later,  if  not  now. 
She  laughs  to  scorn  the  bare  idea  that  she  can  be  worthy  of 
him :  what  has  she  to  give  him  but  her  love,  her  poor  little 
worthless  love,  that  is,  after  all,  only  an  involuntary  tribute  to 
his  perfection  ? 

The  church-clock  strikes  ten  with  a  slow  sonorous  sound. 

"Your  father  is  awake,  and  waiting  for  his  game,"  she 
says,  looking  up  with  an  awed  face  and  returning  to  sudden 
consciousness  of  the  present. 

K* 


226  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

Captain  Montagu  cannot  help  laugliing. 

"  Poor  little  darling  !"  he  whispers  :  "  how  they  have  cowed 
you  already !" 

"  He  will  wake  up,"  says  Diana,  in  a  low,  prophetic  voice ; 
"  he  will  look  about  for  me,  and  then  he  will  ring  and  ask  for 
me  ;  they  will  go  to  my  room  and  not  find  me  there  ;  then," 
her  voice  rising,  "  they  will  come  out  and  look  for  me.  Oh," 
(grasping  his  arm  and  looking  in  his  face  with  a  blanched, 
frightened  gaze) — "  if  they  find  me  here  with  you  I  shall  die.'^ 

"  They  shall  not  find  you  here  with  me,"  he  says,  in  a 
soothing  voice,  seeing  that  she  is  really  terrified  and  that  her 
nerves  are  over-strung.  "  Come ;  we  will  go  towards  the 
house,  and  then,  when  we  are  in  the  garden,  if  we  hear  any 
one  coming  we  can  separate." 

"Come!"  she  cries,  making  her  way  swiftly  towards  the 
gate,  he  following  her. 

At  the  gate  they  pause,  as  they  did  in  the  morning. 

"  Is  it  to  be  '  good-by,'  then  ?"  he  whispers,  looking  regret- 
fully at  her. 

"  Why  need  you  go  to-morrow  ?"  she  asks,  evasively. 

"  Because  I  have  promised." 

"But,"  she  urges,  in  an  earnest  voice,  "if  he — if  Mr. 
Montagu  knows  that  I  can  never  be  anything  more  to  him 
than"  (falteringly)  "  to  you,  why  should  we  not  all  be  happy 
together  ?" 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  Cain  and  Abel  ?  One  brother 
murdered  the  other  because  he  was  jealous ;  though  I  never 
heard  that  a  woman  had  anything  to  do  with  it  in  that  case. 
But  it  strikes  me  that  if  we  were  in  the  same  house  with 
you  for  another  week  with  our  present  feelings,  we  should 
both  feel  pretty  much  towards  each  other  as  Cain  and  Abel 
did ;  or  rather,  I  should  say,  as  Cain  did  to  Abel." 

"  Good-by,  then,"  she  sighs,  with  bitter  reluctance,  stretch- 
ing out  her  hand. 


NOT   TOLD   BY  DIANA.  227 

"  Not  yet,"  he  cries.  "  Oh,  little  darling,  I  don't  feel  as 
if  I  could  part  from  yon  !" 

"  I  must  go,"  she  whispers.  "  They  would  know  it  was 
unnatural  for  me  to  be  out  so  late  alone.  I  think  your 
mother  would  not  be  pleased.  She  is  the  only  one  I  should 
be  really  grieved  to  vex." 

"  Good-by,"  she  whispers,  again,  and  lifts  her  sweet  face  to 
take  one  last  look  at  him.  He  sees  the  tremulous  red  mouth, 
the  bright  eyes  shining  through  unshed  tears,  the  white,  fair 
face,  in  which  the  warm  color  ebbs  and  flows ;  he  hears  the 
quiver  in  the  soft  voice,  and  again  he  thinks  remorsefully  of 
all  he  will  lose  in  parting  from  her.  He  draws  her  back  a 
few  paces  out  of  the  moonlight  into  the  deep  shadow  of  the 
tree.  Once  more  his  arms  are  round  her,  once  more  he  kisses 
her  sweet  lips.  For  a  moment  she  clings  to  him,  as  though  to 
part  from  him  were  to  part  with  her  whole  soul ;  and  then 
she  leaves  him  standing  there  alone,  fighting  with  a  passionate 
love  and  regret  for  her,  and  goes  swiftly  towards  the  house. 
In  front  of  the  door,  in  the  full  white  light,  Hector  is 
standing. 

"Miss  Carew !"  he  exclaims,  in  a  voice  wherein  surprise 
and  anger  fight  for  mastery,  and  then,  with  a  swift  change  of 
voice,  speaking  very  eagerly,  "  How  pale  you  are  !  Have  you 
been  frightened  ?" 

"  I !  no,"  she  answers,  staring  at  him,  and  trembling  in 
every  limb.  Her  nerves  are  overwrought :  a  deadly  fear  and 
sickness  comes  across  her. 

"You  look  quite  ill,"  he  says,  anxiously.  "Let  me  get 
you  a  glass  of  wine."  And,  without  waiting  for  her  answer, 
he  draws  her  unresisting  harid  through  his  arm,  and  leads  her 
away  into  the  house.  There  is  a  light  in  the  smoking-room, 
and  he  pushes  the  door- open  and  takes  her  in  and  places  her 
in  a  low  chair  by  the  open  window.  Then  he  hurries  off  for 
wine.     Whilst  he  is  gone,  she  collects  herself,  and  is  able  to 


228  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

smile  upon  him  when  he  returns,  and  to  make  a  pretense  even 
of  sipping  what  he  brings  her.  . 

"And  answered  with  such  craft  as  women  use, 
Guilty  or  guiltless,  to  stave  off  a  chance 
That  breaks  upon  them  perilously." 

"  Were  you  frightened  ?"  Hector  asks  her  again,  pertina- 
ciously. 

"  No — yes,"  she  stammers.  "  The  moon  throws  such  strange 
ghostly  shadows  these  bright  nights." 

"  Did  you  go  out  alone  ?"  he  asks,  eying  her  with  stern 
curiosity. 

Diana  pauses :  she  has  never  told  a  lie  in  her  life.  But  a 
quick  thought  comes  to  her  rescue ;  he  has  asked  her  if  she 
loent  alone,  and  to  that  she  can  answer  "  Yes,"  truthfully. 

"  Why  did  you  not  wait  for  me  ?"  he  says,  with  gentle  i*e- 
proach,  coming  a  little  nearer  to  her.  "  Did  you  not  know 
how  glad  I  should  have  been  to  go  with  you  ?" 

She  shrinks  from  him  imperceptibly,  and  utters  a  little 
forced  laugh. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  says.  "  I  felt  oppressed  by  the  heat, 
and  thought  the  fresh  air  would  do  me  good.  What  did  Sir 
Hector  say  ?" 

"  He  took  it  for  granted  you  had  gone  to  bed,"  answers  Mr. 
Montagu,  stiffly.  He  is  still  haunted  by  a  vague,  horrible 
suspicion,  although  he  believes  firmly  in  her  truthfulness. 
Certainly  she  is  not  the  same  gay  laughing  Diana  he  drove 
along  the  hawthorn-bound  lanes,  and  wished  good-by  to,  only 
yesterday  morning,  before  that  hateful  journey. 

She  has  relapsed  into  weary  silence,  and,  glancing  at  her, 

"Right  through  his  manful  breast  darted  the  pang 
That  makes  a  man,  in  the  sweet  face  of  her 
Whom  he  loves  most,  lonely  and  miserable." 

"  I  shall  steal  off  to  bed,"  she  says,  rising,  and  forcing 


NOT  TOLD  BV  DIANA.  229 

rather  a  waa  smile.  "  Do  not  betray  me  to  your  father. 
Good-night !" 

Somehow  he  has  no  heart  to  ask  her  to  linger.  He  bids 
her  a  cold  good-night. 

"  To-morrow  !"  he  whispers  to  himself,  as  he  looks  after  her 
retreating  figure  ;  "  to-morrow  !"  But  still  he  sighs,  and  his 
heart  is  heavy  within  him.  Even  his  cigar  affords  him  but 
poor  consolation  to-night. 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 


NOT   TOLD   BY   DIANA. 


Diana  is  awake  early  next  morning :  indeed,  she  has 
not  passed  a  very  tranquil  night.  A  great  crisis  in  her  life 
has  come ;  but  what  lies  beyond  ?  She  hardly  dares  to 
think :  fain  would  she  content  herself  with  the  present,  but 
the  thought  of  what  is  to  follow  will  creep  in.  She  had 
imagined  for  the  minute,  whilst  the  man  she  loved  was  at 
her  side,  that  she  could  live  for  all  time  on  that  memory ;  and 
yet  already  she  is  hankering  and  longing  to  see  him  again,  and 
thinking  how  blank  and  void  to-day  will  be  without  him.  She 
hears  the  sound  of  wheels,  and  springs  out  of  bed.  She  can 
just  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  dogcart,  and  the  horse  pawing 
and  scraping  the  ground.  A  minute  later  she  hears  the 
sound  of  Captain  Montagu's  voice,  and  cranes  her  neck  eagerly 
behind  the  blind  to  get  one  more  glimpse  of  him.  His  face 
is  not  pale  nor  haggard,  as,  somehow,  she  half  expects  to  see 
it,  as  hers  is,  unless  her  mirror  tells  a  false  tale ;  he  looks 
cheery  and  dehonnair,  and  gives  a  pleasant  farewell  smile  and 
nod  to  Sinikins,  who  comes  out  to  wish  him  God-speed.     His 

20 


230  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

portmanteau  and  bag  are  in,  he  lights  a  cigar,  takes  the  reins, 
jumps  in,  and — is  gone.  Gone  !  Diana  feels  acutely  at  this 
moment  how  much  of  pain  one  little  four-lettered  word  can 
hold.  3he  whispers  it  painfully  to  herself  over  and  over  again. 
Gone  from  her  forever  !  Will  he  remember  her  ?  Will  he 
think  longingly,  lingeringly,  as  she  does,  over  last  night's 
scene  ? — or  is  it  only  a  repetition,  with  a  trifling  variation,  oi 
scenes  that  he  has  gone  through  many  a  time  before  ?  Why, 
why  did  he  make  that  hateful  speech  ? — why  tell  her  he  could 
never  be  alone  with  a  woman  without  making  love  to  her  ? 
And  was  it  always  the  same, — the  man  in  play,  the  woman  in 
'Earnest?  A  passage  from  Madame  de  Stael  will  haunt  her: 
"  Ij  amour  est  Ihistoire  de  la  vie  des  femmes  cest  un  e^nsode 
dans  celle  des  hovimes."  Over  and  over  again  it  repeats  itself 
as  she  plaits  her  long  hair  and  dresses  tardily  for  breakfast, — 
bteakfiist  that  was  so  cheery  yesterday,  that  will  be  so  dull, 
she  thinks,  sighing,  to-day.  It  is  a  bright,  warm  day  again : 
she  wishes  it  were  stormy  and  wet ;  she  would  rather  hear  the 
wind  howling  dismally  in  the  wide  chinmey,  and  the  rain 
pattering  against  the  window-panes:  it  would  be  far  more  in 
consonance  with  her  feelings. 

"  I  cannot  stay  here  any  longer,"  she  says  to  herself.  "  I 
will  write  to-day  and  tell  papa  that  he  must  send  for  me  home." 

Sir  Hector  is  short  and  snappish  with  her  this  morning : 
evidently  he  is  ill  pleased  at  her  defalcation  the  previous  even- 
ing ;  but  his  son  tries  by  every  means  in  his  power  to  make 
things  pleasant. 

"  Will  you  ride  this  moming?"  he  asks  her.  "  There  is  a 
charming  ride  for  a  sunny  morning  that  I  have  not  yet  taken 
you, — all  through  shady  lanes  and  a  delicious  wood." 

She  shivers  a  little  at  the  last  word,  but  tries  to  smile  as  she 
assents  to  his  proposal.  Yes,  she  will  like  to  ride  very  much. 
Anything  for  a  change  ;  anything  to  take  her  out  of  heiself. 
Hector  feels,  and  is,  quite  another  man  this  morning:  the 


NOT   TOLD   BY  DIANA.  231 

nightmare  of  his  brother's  presence  being  removed,  he  can 
smile  and  be  genial  again,  and  the  ugly  curves  about  his 
mouth  shrink  away  to  nothing.  It  is  a  morning  to  make  any 
one  blithe  who  has  the  faintest,  smallest  reason  for  being  glad  ; 
it  is  a  morning  to  break  the  heart  of  any  one  who  has  a  secret 
sorrow  gnawing  at  liis  breast.  When  nature  is  so  passing  fair 
and  one  is  at  discord  with  her,  at  discord  with  happiness,  what 
is  her  loveliness  but  "  sweet  bells  jangled  out  of  tune"  ? 

Is  tliis  grave  silent  maiden,  who  forces  a  little  pale  smile  in 
answer  when  he  speaks  to  her,  the  joyous  laughing  Dianti  of 
three  days  ago?  so  full  of  life  and  spirits  that  she  would  have 
let  him  make  love  to  her  had  he  willed  it,  out  of  sheer  high 
spirits  and  the  pleasure  of  life?  He  will  be  very  patient 
with  her,  but  as  they  ride  along  he  falls  to  wondering  what 
charm  his  brother  possesses  for  winning  smiles  and  gay  glad 
words  from  every  woman  he  comes  across. 

"  I  never  in  my  life  heard  him  say  anything  that  was  not 
utterly  commonplace,"  he  thinks.  "  Are  women,  even  good 
women,  really  so  shallow  as  to  be  caught  by  a  merely  hand- 
some face  and  a  trick  of  manner  ?" 

"  What  did  you  do  yesterday  ?"  he  asks,  abruptly, — so  ab- 
ruptly that  the  quick  color  rushes  uncontrollably  through  her 
fair  face. 

"  How  you  startle  one  !"  .she  says,  with  some  pettishness. 

"  Did  I  ?"  he  replies,  penitently.  "  I  am  very  sorry.  I  am 
afraid  I  am  rather  a  bear." 

"  Not  that,"  she  says,  recovering  herself;  "  but  you  are 
silent  for  a  long  time,  and  then  yo*  burst  out  suddenly  upon 
one  in  a  way  that  takes  one's  breath  away." 

"  Do  I  ?"  he  exclaims,  eagerly.  "  I  am  so  sorry, — awfully 
sorry,  as  the  correct  phrase  is  now.  But,"  returning  to  his 
former  question,  "  what  did  you  do  ycstei-day  ?" 

"  I  don't  know"  (carelessly)  :  "nothing,  I  think, — pottered 
about  the  garden." 


232  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"  Is  that  all  ?" 

"  Do  you  insist  upon  the  minutest  details  ?"  she  asks,  with 
a  look  he  does  not  quite  comprehend. 

"  I  don't  insist  on  anything,"  he  rejoins,  with  some  coldness. 

"After  breakfast  I  sang  for  an  hour;  then  we  went  into  the 
garden  and  sat  under  a  tree,  and  your  brother  caught  three 
carp." 

She  does  not  tell  him  how ;  and  he  chooses  to  imagine,  not 
being  a  fisherman,  nor  knowing  the  exceeding  difficulty  of 
catching  those  wily  fish  with  fly  or  worm,  that  Captain  Mon- 
tagu angled  for  them  in  the  usual  manner,  "  a  worm  at  one  end 
of  the  rod,  a  fool  at  the  other."  He  reflects  to  himself  with 
inward  satisfaction  that  fishing  and  love-making  are  two  things 
that  do  not  go  very  well  together. 

"And  after  that?" 

"  After  that"  (averting  her  face  and  pulling  leaves  ofi"  the 
low-hanging  boughs  within  her  reach),  "oh,  after  that  we 
strolled  into  the  wood  to  look  at  the  primroses  and  hyacinths. 
Have  you  seen  them  ? — they  are  exquisite.  I  never  saw  so 
many  together  before." 

"  Will  you  show  them  to  me  ?"  he  asks,  bending  a  little 
towards  her ;  but  they  have  emerged  into  the  open,  and  she 
puts  her  horse  into  a  canter  without  answering.  Go  there 
with  him  !  not  for  worlds !  is  it  not  sacred  to  a  memory  ? 
Let  no  unhallowed  feet  profane  its  precincts. 

When  they  reach  home,  Diana  finds  Lady  Montagu  m  the 
drawing-room.  Is  it  her  fiincy,  or  is  the  kiss  my  lady  be- 
stows upon  her  a  shade  less  warm  and  her  manner  a  little  less 
affectionate  than  usual  ? 

"  She  is  angry  with  me  because  her  favorite  son  has  gone," 
Diana  thinks,  forlornly.  "  Why  does  she  not  blame  the  right 
person  for  sending  him  away  ? — am  I  not  tenfold  more  grieved 
than  she  ?  As  long  as  she  lives,  he  will  always  be  the  same 
to  her,  and  now"  (tears  rising  at  the  thought)  "  he  is  never 


NOT  TOLD  BY  DIANA.  233 

to  be  anything  more  to  me."  She  takes  her  embroidery,  and 
the  two  ladies  work  assiduously :  very  little  conversation  passes 
between  them.  After  lunch  they  drive  together,  but  still 
Diana  feels  painfully  that  she  is  under  a  cloud.  The  only 
thing  that  could  have  consoled  her  would  be  to  hear  Captain 
Montagu's  mother  speak  of  him,  and  she  has  never  even  so 
much  as  mentioned  his  name.  Well,  she  will  be  back  at  the 
dear  old  home  soon  :  why  did  she  ever  leave  it?  She  has 
written  to  her  father  telling  him  that  she  is  home-sick,  and 
that  she  will  positively  return  home  the  next  day  but  one  fol- 
lowing. He  must  write  her  by  return  of  post  summoning 
her  back,  but,  if  not,  why,  she  will  go  without ;  but  in  any 
case  she  will  go  home.  This  is  an  unusual  display  of  willful- 
ness for  Miss  Diana ;  but  then  it  is  a  very  unusual  occasion. 
All  through  the  drive  she  is  thinking  how  she  will  broach  the 
subject  to  her  hostess  (the  letter  is  safely  on  its  way  by  now) ; 
at  last  she  says,  rushing  at  her  subject, — 

"  I  fear  I  must  be  leaving  you  very  soon.  Lady  Montagu. 
I  have  had  a — a  delightful  visit ;  but  papa  will  be  missing  me 
sadly,  and  I  quite  expect  a  summons"  (feeling  guilty),  "  per- 
haps to-morrow  or  the  next  day." 

"  My  dear,  you  must  not  think  of  it,"  answers  my  lady, 
with  her  old  kind  manner.  "  What  should  we  do  without  you  ? 
I,  for  one,  cannot  spare  you.  Sir  Hector  will  be  quite  lost 
without  his  chess  ;  and  as  for  Hector " 

"  I  think  you  could  all  do  better  without  me  than  papa," 
interrupts  Diana ;  "  though  it  is  very  kind  of  you  to  say  you 
will  miss  me." 

"  But,  my  dear,"  says  Lady  Montagu,  with  a  pleasant  smile, 
"your  papa  will  have. to  spare  you  altogether  some  day;  and 
it  is  better  to  accustom  him  to  the  idea  by  degrees." 

"  Ho  will  never  have  to  spare  me  for  long,"  answers  Diana, 
heaving  a  great  sigh,  but  speaking  in  a  resolute  tone  so  un- 
usual to  her  that  Lady  Montagu  looks  askance  at  her. 

20* 


231  FOR   A    TrC\l/.l.V',S'  SAKE. 

"  Young  girls  always  talk  like  that,"  slic  sa\'s,  but  lets  the 
suhject  drop.  Later  in  the  day  she  tells  Hector  what  has 
passed.  She  has  sent  for  him  to  her  boudoir,  and  he  has 
answered  the  suunnons  in  haste. 

He  looks  bitterly  pained. 

"Oh,  mother  !"  he  says,  at  last,  "why  of  all  days  should 
you  have  had  a  headache  on  that  one  unlucky  day?" 

"  My  dear,"  answers  Lady  Montagu,  softly,  "  I  think  you 
take  alarm  too  easily.  I  do  not  imagine  Diana  can  be  so  fool- 
ish as  to  think  anything  of  Charlie.  I  am  sure  she  is  too  lady- 
like and  right-minded  to  care  for  a  man  who  has  not  given 
her  any  encouragement." 

"  Encouragement !  Grant  me  patience  !"  mutters  Hector, 
in  a  fierce  sotto  voce,  turning  sharply  to  the  window. 

"  What  did  you  say  ?"  asks  Lady  Montagu,  mildly,  and  he 
makes  the  answer  that  people  generally  do  when  they  say  and 
mean  a  good  deal.     "  Nothing  !" 

"  We  know,"  proceeds  my  lady,  gently,  all  unconscious  of 
the  daggers  she  is  planting  in  the  heart  of  her  first-born,  "  that 
Charlie  has  a  very  winning  sjianner ;  but  no  girl,  I  should  hope, 
would  be  foolish  enough  to  construe  his  pleasant  little  caress- 
ing ways  into  any  serious  intentions.  He  is  the  same  to  every 
woman,  even  to  me"  (smiling  a  little),  "your  father  says." 

"  You  remember  the  old  fable  of  the  boys  and  the  frog, 
mother,"  Hector  interrupts,  roughly,  unconsciously  betraying 
the  fear  that  he  has  been  chary  of  acknowledging  even  to 
liimself.     "  What  is  play  to  you  is  death  to  me." 

"  You  do  not  think,  really,"  says  Lady  Montagu,  incredu- 
lously, "  that  Diana  has  taken  a  serious  fancy  to  Charlie  ?" 

"  Fancy  !"  murmurs  Hector  to  himself;  "  ay,  that  is  a  good 
word  to  apply  to  a  woman's  liking."     Then,  aloud, — 

"I  don't  know  what  to  think;  my  heart  is  so  in  this 
matter  that  I  have  not  the  least  chance  of  judging  impartially. 
Mother"  (earnestly),  "  I  have  not  courage  to  speak  to  lier 


NOT  TOLD   BV  DIANA.  235 

myself.  I  love  her  so  much  that  I  am  actually  afraid  of  her. 
Will  you  not"  (pleadingly)  "  speak  for  me, — tell  her  how  in- 
tensely I  love  her,  and — and"  (smiling  rather  doubtfully) 
"say  the  best  you  can  of  me,  mother?  I  don't  think  I  am 
the  sort  of  fellow  to  take  a  girl's  fancy ^ — that  was  the  word 
you  used, — and  yet  we  seemed  to  get  on  very  well  before — 
before  I  went  away.  I  had  great  hope  of  her  that  morning 
when  she  went  to  the  station  with  me." 

"Of  course,  dear,"  Lady  Montagu  replies,  nervously,  "I 
will  do  anything  to  contribute  to  your  happiness ;  but" 
(smiling  up  in  his  face)  "  I  hardly  think  a  mother  is  a 
good  medium  for  a  man's  love-making, — in  this  country,  at 
all  events.  Why  not  tell  her  yourself?  Indeed  it  would 
come  much  better  from  you." 

He  shakes  his  head. 

"I  cannot;  but  you — at  all  events  you  can  prepare  her 
mind.  Not  to-night, — somehow,  I  do  not  think  she  would 
take  it  so  well  to-night, — but  to-morrow.  Don't  refuse  me, 
mother !" 

His  heart  is  in  his  voice,  and  so  his  mother  consents 
to  the  unthankful  task.  On  the  following  afternoon,  when 
she  and  Diana  have  come  in  from  their  drive  and  arc  sitting 
together  over  their  work,  Lady  Montagu,  with  a  little  ruffled, 
uncomfortable  sensation  at  her  heart,  broaches  the  theme. 

"  I  shall  be  very  lonely  this  time  to-morrov/,"  she  says, 
gently,  lifting  her  sweet  gray  eyes  from  the  gorgeous  silks 
with  which  she  is  embroidering  a  great  damask  rose  ;  "  that 
is,  if  you  persist  in  leaving  us." 

"  You  are  veiy,  very  kind,"  Diana  replies,  answering  the 
look  with  one  equally  pleasant  and  affectionate;  "and  I  shall 
miss  you  every  bit  as  much, — perhaps  more.  You  know" 
(most  unwittingly  giving  tlie  very  cue  that  the  other  wants) 
*'  you  are  the  first  person  who  ever  made  me  feel  the  want  of 
a  mother." 


23G  ""OR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"  Come  and  sit  by  me,"  says  Lady  Montagu,  holding  out 
her  hand ;  and  Diana,  rising,  crosses  over  and  sits  beside  her 
on  the  sofa. 

Lady  jNIontagu  takes  one  of  her  hands  and  strokes  it  softly. 

"  Let  me  be  your  mother  in  reality,"  she  -whispers,  softly, 
looking  in  Diana's  flice  with  kind,  humid  eyes.  "  Let  me  plead 
my  son's  cause  with  you." 

Diana's  head  droops :  the  tears  are  welling  in  her  eyes 
too  :  what  would  she  ask  better  than  to  be  daughter  to  so  kind 
and  sweet  a  mother? — daughter,  but  not  in  the  way  she  means. 
She  is  silent,  but  her  silence  may  signify  anything,  and  Lady 
Montagu  takes  heart  of  grace. 

"  Ever  since  Hector  first  saw  you,"  she  proceeds,  still  ca- 
ressing the  slim  white  hand,  "  he  has  loved  you, — devotedly. 
I  never  thought  it  possible  he  could  come  to  care  so  much  for 
any  one."  In  truth,  his  worship  of  Diana  has  caused  his 
mother  much  secret  wonder.  "  Let  me  give  him  good  news  : 
may  I  ?"  she  urges.  "  I  need  not  praise  him  to  you ;  you 
have  seen  how  good,  how  noble-minded  he  is,  and  I  feel  sure 
he  would  make  you  a  devoted  husband." 

Diana  looks  up  at  last.  She  has  been  wanting  all  the  time 
to  stop  her  friend,  but  has  not  known  how. 

"  Don't  think  me  ungrateful,"  she  says,  in  a  low,  con- 
strained voice.  "  I  feel  deeply  the — the  honor  and  the  kind- 
ness that  you  and — and  Mr.  Montagu  do  me,  but  indeed" 
(turning  away  her  head)  "  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  think  of 
him  except  as  a  friend." 

"  My  love,"  cries  Lady  Montagu,  feeling  as  if  somehow  she 
had  fulfilled  her  mission  badly,  "  do  not  be  in  haste  to  decide. 
You  are  such  a  child, — what  are  you  ?  only  eighteen, — he 
can  afford  to  wait ;  and  in  time — in  time,  I  hope,  you  will 
think  diff"erently.  Only,  pray,  pray  do  not  say  positively  that 
it  is  impossible :  he  would  take  it  so  to  heart.  I  have  been  a 
little  too  sudden :  it  is  rather  shocking  to  the  feelinos  of  a 


NOT   TOLD   BY  DIANA.  237 

young  girl  to  hear  so  solemn  a  subject  broached  hnstily.  I 
remember  quite  well"  (a  pink  blush  rising  in  her  delicate  face) 
"  when  there  was  first  question  of  my  marrying  Sir  Hector,  I 
could  not  bring  myself  all  at  once  to  the  idea.  Let  me  tell 
him  that  you  will  think  about  it." 

"  No,"  Diana  answers,  in  a  low,  firm  voice  ;  "  it  would  only 
be  deceiving  him.  I  like,  I  respect  Mr.  Montagu  very  much, 
but  I  could  not  ever  care  for  him  enough  to  be  his  wife." 

Lady  Montagu,  glancing  at  her,  sees  that  she  is  not  to  be 
moved.  Ever  so  slight  a  feeling  of  anger  at  the  rejection  of 
her  son  creeps  into  her  kind  heart. 

"  I  think,"  she  says,  "  it  would  be  hardly  possible  for  you 
to  be  so  decided  in  your  refusal  of  my  son  unless  there  was 
some  one  else  whom  you  preferred.  Perhaps  there  is  already 
some  one  of  whom  we  have  not  heard,  who " 

"  No,  no,  no  !"  interrupts  Diana,  hastily,  turning  her  head 
away  to  hide  the  hot  blushes  that  are  dyeing  her  cheek. 

"  My  love,"  whispers  Lady  Montagu,  urged  by  a  sudden 
impulse,  ''  I  may  be  wrong — I  hope  I  am,  but  I  do  trust" 
(very  earnestly)  "  that  you  are  not  allowing  any  thought  of — 
of  my  younger  son  to  interfere  with  your  happiness.  It  would 
be  utterly  impossible  for  him,  with  his  extravagant  habits,  to 
marry  any  but  a  rich  woman ;  and — forgive  my  saying  so — 
that  little  manner  of  his  which  is  so  charming  and  caressing 
does  not  really  mean  anything." 

Diana  rises  suddenly  and  walks  to  the  window,  and  as  sud- 
denly returns  and  confronts  Lady  JMontagu. 

"  I  should  be  extremely  sorry.  Lady  Montagu,"  she  says, 
with  great  spirit,  "  for  you  to  labor  under  any  erroneous  im- 
pressions with  regard  to  my  feelings  for  Captain  Montagu.  I 
have  as  little  thought  of  marrying  your  younger  as  your  elder 
son !"  And.  flying  off  to  her  room,  she  flings  herself  into  a 
chair  in  a  passion  of  tears. 


238  FOR  A    WOMAA"S  SAKE 


CHAPTER   XXV. 


NOT    TOLD    BY   DIANA. 


Hector,  who  is  reading  the  "  Times"  in  the  library,  with 
the  door  ajar,  sees  a  slight  form  flit  hurriedly  by,  and 
conjectures  that  his  mother  has  fulfilled  her  mission.  He 
throws  aside  the  paper,  for  whose  contents  indeed  he  is  not 
much  the  wiser,  and  goes  with  slow  steps  towards  the  small 
drawing-room  ;  with  slow  steps,  not  because  he  is  not  eager, 
but  because,  full-grown  man  as  he  is,  accredited  with  the 
coolest,  most  perfect  self-control,  his  heart  is  beating  loudly, 
and  he  is  as  nervous  as  a  girl  at  her  first  "  drawing-room." 
He  pauses,  with  his  hand  upon  the  door,  feeling  positively 
sick  with  apprehension.  His  life  seems  to  hang  upon  the  fiat 
of  this  slim  young  girl.  In  another  moment  he  has  read  his 
doom  in  his  mother's  eyes,  even  before  she  has  had  timu  to 
unclose  her  lips. 

"I  knew  it, — I  was  quite  sure  of  it,"  he  utters,  very 
calmly,  standing  in  front  of  her.  "  Still,  I  should  like  to 
know  what  she  said,  what  reason  she  gave." 

"  She  said,"  replies  his  mother,  slowly,  turning  over  in  her 
mind  how  best  to  soften  the  narration, — -"  she  said  she  liked 
you  ver^  much  as  a  friend,  that  she  admired  and  respected 
you,  but " 

"But,"  says  Hector,  finishing  the  sentence  for  her,  "  she 
could  never  care  sufiiciently  for  me  to  marry  me.  Was 
that  it  ?" 

"  Yes"  (reluctantly). 

"Did  she  say"  (faltering  a  little)  "that  she  could  not  care 
for  me  because  she — she  loved  some  one  else?  ' 


NOT  TOLD   BY  DIANA.  239 

"  No,  indeed,"  replies  his  mother,  eagerly ;  "  and  I  am 
afraid  I  have  offended  her  by  hinting  about  Charlie.  She 
sprang  up  with  such  spirit, — I  could  not  have  fancied  it  was  in 
her, — and  told  me  that  she  had  as  little  thought  of  one  of 
you  as  the  other ;  and  then  she  rushed  out  of  the  room." 

"  I  wish  to  God,"  says  Hector,  bitterly,  turning  away, 
"that  I  had  never  set  eyes  on  her!  Mother"  (confronting 
her  again  sharply),  "  you  are  very  good  and  religious, — do 
you  really  and  honestly  believe,  in  your  heart  of  hearts,  that 
there  is  some  beneficent  purpose  in  our  being  denied  every- 
thing we  want  and  care  for  here,  or  do  you  think  it  pleases 
the  Almighty  to  torture  us  as  a  cat  likes  to  play  with  a 
mouse  ?" 

Then  he  turns  on  his  heel  and  goes,  before  Lady  Montagu, 
who  looks  deeply  shocked,  has  time  to  utter  a  syllable. 

Diana  appears  at  dinner  with  a  pale  face,  but  perfectly  com- 
posed. This  is  the  last  evening  she  will  ever  spend  at  Alford, 
and  she  musters  the  best  grace  she  can  to  go  through  it. 
After  all,  they  have  meant  kindly  by  her.  But  she  feels 
dreadfully  embarrassed  at  meeting  both  Hector  and  his  mother, 
and  devotes  her  conversation  during  the  dreary  ceremony  for 
the  most  part  to  Sir  Hector,  who,  unconscious  of  what  has 
happened,  and  still  looking  upon  her  as  his  prospective  daugh- 
ter-in-law, is  pleased  to  be  very  gracious.  Little  does  the 
proud  old  autocrat  dream  that  a  chit  like  this,  without  a  half- 
penny to  her  fortune,  could  have  the  presumption  to  refuse 
his  heir.  He  does  not  even  know  that  she  conteiuplatcs  leav- 
ing Alford  next  day. 

"  I  am  going  to  let  you  off  to-night,"  he  tells  her,  with  a 
frosty  smile.  "  I  have  business  with  my  bailiff ;  so  we  must 
forego  our  game  for  once." 

"  For  a  long  time,  then,  I  fear,"  says  Diana,  <(uietly,  "  as  I 
am  going  away  to-morrow." 

"  Going    to-morrow  !"     cries    the    old    autocrat.     "  Pooh  ! 


240  i'^OIl   A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

pshaw !  nonsense !  impossible  !  not  likely  we  are  going  to  let 
you  run  away  in  such  a  hurry !"  His  tone  is  a  curious  com- 
pound of  the  imperative,  benevolent,  and  patronizing. 

"  My  father  wants  me,"  answers  Diana. 

"  Tell  him  he  must  do  without  you  a  little  longer.  There 
are  other  people  who  have  claims  besides  fathers,  eh.  Hector?" 
(with  a  facetious  glance  at  his  son). 

Being  behind  the  scenes,  we  may  conjecture  the  agreeable 
effect  produced  by  this  speech  upon  the  other  members  of  the 
party.     But  Hector  comes  swiftly  to  the  rescue. 

"  We  shall  all  miss  Miss  Carew  very  much,"  he  says,  "  but 
her  father  can  perhaps  spare  her  even  less." 

"  Heyday  !"  cries  the  baronet,  raising  his  eyebrows,  "  you 
young  men  take  things  very  coolly  in  these  days,  it  seems  to 
me.     It  was  not  like  that  with  our  generation,  eh,  my  lady  ?" 

Hector  looks  significantly  at  his  mother,  and  she,  hastily 
gathering  up  her  fan  and  scent-bottle,  beats  a  hasty  retreat. 

Diana  passes  a  dreary  half-hour  in  the  drawing-room,  look- 
ing out  of  window  at  the  bright  moonlight,  and  wishing  she 
were  out  in  it.  Then  Hector  comes  in.  He  feels  embar- 
rassed, and  knows  that  she  is  feeling  the  same;  he  does  not 
want  to  add  to  it. 

""Would  you  like  to  come  out?"  he  asks,  politely,  seeing 
her  wistful  glance  out  of  window ;  and  then,  as  she  hesitates, 
he  adds,  quickly,  "  Not  unless  you  feel  inclined." 

"  Yes,"  she  answers  ;  "  let  us  go." 

Since  she  must  be  alone  with  him,  for  Lady  Montagu  asleep 
counts  as  no  one,  as  well  out  in  the  cool,  pleasant  night  as  in 
this  warm  room,  and  if  he  still  has  anything  to  say  to  lior, 
why,  let  him  say  it  once  for  all,  and  understand  finally  that 
she  can  be  nothing  more  to  hira  than  a  friend.  But  as  they 
pace  up  and  down  the  gravel  walk  together,  he  makes  no 
sign,  his  conversaliuu  is  perfectly  commonplace.  Suddenly  he 
says, — 


NOT   TOLD   BY  DIANA.  241 

"  Lot  us  go  into  the  wood  and  sec  the  prhnroses  you  told 
me  of  by  moonlight." 

"  No,"  she  answers,  resolutely.  "  There  might  be  snakes," 
she  adds,  in  answer  to  his  inquiring  glance.  "  I  should  like 
to  go  in  the  boat." 

They  take  their  way  across  the  short  green  turf  to  the  lake, 
and  stand  for  a  moment  by  its  margin  looking  into  it.  Still 
and  clear  it  lies  like  a  vast  burnished  mirror,  and  in  it  are 
reflected  the  trees  and  tall  shrubs ;  so  bright  it  is  they  can  see 
in  its  clear  depths  the  pink  May  blossoms,  the  towering  lilacs, 
and  the  gold  showers  of  laburnum.  No  wonder  the  moon 
loves  to  see  herself  mirrored  in  it.  Her  pale  face  looks  more 
radiantly  bright  there  than  where  she  rides  aloft  in  the  blue 
heavens  ;  now  and  again  a  rustling  little  breeze  comes  rippling 
along  and  turns  her  into  a  flood  of  sparkling  diamonds. 

Hector  brings  out  the  boat  and  lays  the  cushions  in  it ; 
then  he  helps  her  in.  There  is  some  subtle  influence  in  the 
gliding  of  a  boat  through  still  waters ;  it  has  a  lulling,  dream- 
compelling  elfect ;  one  cannot  feel  actively  miserable.  Diana 
leans  back  among  the  cushions  ;  she  is  not  unhappy  now ; 
young  blood  runs  in  her  veins,  and  she  is  keenly  conscious  of, 
and  acted  upon  always  by.  Nature's  beauty.  As  in  a  dream 
she  floats  along,  seeing  the  dark  fir-trees  standing  out  against 
the  clear  sky,  and  the  pointed  tops  of  the  tall  shrubs,  the 
glittering  stars  and  the  bright  moon,  and  hearing  almost  un- 
consciously the  nightingale, 

"Shedding  bis  song  u])on  licight,  upon  hollow, 
From  tawny  liody  and  small  swoet  mouth, 
Feeding  the  heart  of  the  night  with  fire." 

Hector  disturbs   her  by  never  a  word.     He   has   grown 

strangely  Immblc ;  he  is  content  that  she  shall  not  he  un- 

h((p2^y  in  his  presence.     And  so  they  glide  along  together, 

this  strcingely  silent  couple, — the  girl  with  her  fair  face  and 

L  21 


242  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

star-like  eyes  turned  heavenwards,  and  the  man's  dark  fiice 
shadowed  by  his  hat  bent  down  on  her.  She  cannot  see  that 
he  is  looking  at  her, — she  does  not  feel  it  to-night ;  she  is 
dreamily  content  with  the  night's  beauty  and  the  pleasant 
gliding  motion.  The  oars  dip  steadily  in  the  water  and  come 
out  flashing  and  shining  with  diamonds  dropping  from  them. 
Hector  goes  on  rowing  unweariedly,  only  dreading  the  break- 
ing of  the  spell.     After  a  long  time,  Diana  says,  reluctantly, — 

"  Is  it  not  getting  very  late  ?" 

"  Would  you  like  to  go  in  ?"  he  asks. 

"  I  suppose  one  ought  to."  And  he  rows  her  to  the  bank 
without  another  word.  As  she  gets  out,  her  foot  slips.  Hector 
catches  her  in  his  arms  and  strains  her  for  a  moment  to  his 
beating  heart.  She  tears  herself  away  from  him,  and  stands 
trembling  on  the  bank,  feeling  angry  and  repellent.  He 
springs  after  her,  and,  drawing  her  unwilling  hand  through 
his  arm,  leads  her  a  few  paces  to  a  bench  under  an  old  tree 
whose  gnarled  and  twisted  branches  overhang  the  water.  He 
had  not  meant  to  say  one  word  to  her  of  his  love  when  he 
brought  her  out,  but  !t  is  too  strong  for  him. 

"  Can  I  do  nothing  to  make  you  care  for  me  ?"  he  says,  in 
a  deep,  tremulous  voice. 

Diana  is  very  sorry  for  him,  and  she  is  tender-hearted ;  she 
would  not  willingly  give  pain  to  any  living  thing,  much  less 
a  man  who  pays  her  the  compliment  of  loving  her. 

"  I  do  like  you  very  much,"  she  urges,  softly.  "  Will  you 
not  be  content  with  my  friendship  ?" 

"  Friendship  !"  he  says,  with  impatient  scorn  ;  "  what  is 
friendship  ?  If  a  dozen  men  came  to  you  to-morrow  and 
asked  for  your  friendship,  you  would  accord  it  as  kindly  and 
politely  as  you  do  to  me  to-night.  How  am  I,  who  love  you 
with  all  my  soul,  the  better  for  your  friendship?  Pshaw  !  it 
is  a  thing  that  cannot  exist  between  men  and  women  until 
they  both  have  one  foot  in  the  grave." 


NOT   TOLD  BY  DIANA.  243 

"  Oh,  indeed  it  can,"  Diana  answers,  earnestly.  "  Friend- 
ship means  a  great  deal :  it  is"  (dropping  her  voice)  "  the 
next  thing  to  love.  You  have  been  very  kind  to  me,  and  I 
like  you,  and  honor  and  respect  you  besides :  how  could  I 
feel  the  same  towards  strangers  of  whom  I  know  nothing?" 

"  Honor  and  respect !"  he  cries,  impatiently,  only  answering 
one  part  of  her  little  speech :  "  that  is  what  one  gives  the 
aged,  what  one  gives  one's  parents, — at  least"  (with  a  grim 
smile)  "  some  of  us  do.  What  satisfliction  do  you  think  it 
can  give  a  man  who  craves  passionately  for  your  love,  for 
something  as  far  removed  from  mere  honor  and  respect  as 
light  is  from  darkness?  Oh,  child!"  (bitterly),  "pray  God 
you  may  never  ask  for  bread  and  be  given  a  stone !" 

Diana  looks  sorrowfully  at  him. 

"  You  do  not  believe  I  would  pain  you  willingly,"  she  says  ; 
"  but  how  is  it  possible  to  compel  love  ?  You  say  you  love 
me:  well"  (earnestly),  "if  to-night  some  other  woman  came 
and  besought  you  for  your  love,  could  you  give  it  her?" 

She  speaks  all  unconscious  that  she  is  betraying  herself. 

"  Are  the  cases  analogous  ?"  he  says,  sharply.  "  Is  it  be- 
cause you  have  given  your  love  elsewhere  that  you  cannot 
give  it  to  me  ?"  i 

Seeing  the  pit  which  she  has  unwittingly  digged  for  herself, 
and  into  which  she  has  so  untowardly  fallen,  Diana  colors 
deeply  and  is  silent. 

"  Is  it  so  ?"  he  asks,  more  sharply  still. 

"  And  if  it  is !"  she  says,  looking  up  defiantly  from  the 
corner  into  which  he  has  driven  her. 

"  Then  I  have  no  more  to  say,"  he  answers,  feeling  the 
grasp  of  an  icy  hand  clutching  at  his  heart. 

There  follows  a  short,  unbroken  silence ;  then  he  says, 
almost  pathetically, — 

"  You  are  very  young,  child  ;  you  have  not  seen  anything 
of  lifi'  or  tin'  world.     Jii.st    now  you  oH'crod  me  your  friend- 


244  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

ship.  Well,  let  me  make  use  of  it  this  once  to  say  something 
to  you.  I  am  not  impartial,  3'ou  may  think  and  say :  I  know 
it;  but  I  know,  too,  that  any  real  friend  would  tell  you  the 
same.  I  am  not  going  to  mention  any  name :  you  need  not 
be  angi-y  with  me.  Suppose  you,  who  are  very  young  and 
innocent  and  unworldly,  come  across  a  man  who  is  none  of 
the  three, — at  all  events,  not  the  two  latter ;  suppose  that  he, 
with  his  eyes  wide  open,  having  no  serious  thought  of  you, 
makes  protestations  of  love  to  you  which  you  in  your  guile- 
less heart  may  believe  sincere,  but  which  others  know,  which 
he  knows  himself,  mean  nothing  but  his  own  selfish  desire  to 
gratify  a  pleasant  feeling :  would  your  friend  advise  you  to 
give  your  pure  gold  in  exchange  for  his  spurious  coin  ?" 

Diana  is  passionately  indignant, — indignant  as,  in  her  eigh- 
teen years  of  life,  she  has  never  been  before.  Carried  away 
by  her  anger,  she  makes  him  an  answer  that  in  her  cooler 
moments  she  would  not  have  made  for  all  the  world. 

"  You  need  mention  no  name !"  she  cries,  passionately ; 
"  you  are  speaking  of  your  brother.  At  all  events,  I  never 
li%ard  him  breathe  a  syllable  against  you.  It  is  very  kind  of 
you  to  try  and  humble  me  by  saying  that  he  had  no  thought  of 
me,  no  intention  but  to  gratify  himself,  but  yon  are  quite 
wi-ong.  Captain  Montagu  ashed  me  to  marry  him,  and  for 
his  own  sake  I  refused  Jiim." 

Hector  stares  stupidly  at  her. 

"  When,  may  I  ask  ?"  he  says,  in  a  low,  smothered  voice. 

"  The  night  before  he  went  away." 

"  So,"  says  Hector,  between  his  teeth,  "  my  Jwnoralle 
brother,  who  went  away  to  leave  the  field  clear  for  me." 

Diana  is  on  her  swift  way  to  the  house,  but  he  does  not 
attempt  to  follow  her.  For  the  moment  his  fierce  wrath  has 
swallowed  up  his  love. 


DIANA'S  STORY.  245 


CHAPTER  XX VL 


DIANA  S    STORY. 


I  AM  back  again  at  home, — glad,  most  glad,  to  be  there. 
Everything  pleases  me, — even  our  simplicity  and  poverty : 
the  absence  of  that  heavy  wearisome  state  which  oppressed  me 
at  Alford  is  in  itself  delightful ;  but  pleasantest  change  of  all 
is  my  father's  kind,  gentle  manner,  which  to  my  mind  has  far 
more  of  dignity  in  it  than  Sir  Hector's  pompous  bluster. 

I  can  scarcely  take  my  eyes  off  his  dear  face  as  we  sit  tete-ci- 
tete  over  our  roast  chicken ;  very  often  he  looks  over  at  me 
too,  and  when  our  eyes  meet  we  exchange  a  friendly  smile. 

"  It  is  good  to  go  away  sometimes,"  I  say  meditatively,  with 
my  elbows  on  the  table,  in  happy  freedom  from  all  restraint 
(fancy  putting  one's  elbows  on  Sir  Hector's  dinner-table  !)  ",It 
makes  one  so  glad  to  come  back." 

"  Does  it,  Di  ?"  remarks  papa,  looking  pleased.  "  I  am  very 
glad  to  hear  you  say  so.  I  was  afraid  it  would  have  quite  a 
contrary  effect." 

"  If  you  only  knew,"  I  say,  with  a  little  air  of  superior 
wisdom,  "  how  dreadful  it  is  to  have  three  or  four  immense 
men  standing  about,  watching  every  morsel  you  eat,  and 
snatching  up  your  plate  almost  before  you  have  put  down 
your  knife  and  fork  !  It  is  delightful  music  to  me  now  to 
hear  Sally  clatter  the  plates  and  shuffle  about  in  her  slip-shod 
way.  And  then  to  hear  that  dreadful  old  man  bullying  and 
worrying  them  all  the  time,  it  made  me  so  nervous  at  first  I 
could  hardly  eat  anything." 

"  The  dreadful  old  man  is  Sir  Hector,  I  presume?"  smiles 
papa. 

21* 


246  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"  Yes, — Sir  Hector.  What  a  capital  name  for  him !  It 
■was  very  thoughtful  of  his  godfather  and  godmother  in  his 
baptism  to  give  him  that  name ;  though  they  could  hardly 
have  told  at  the  time  how  appropriate  it  would  be,  could  they  ? 
He  does  nothing  but  hector  from  morning  till  night." 

"  But,"  says  papa,  "  his  son  has  the  same  name :  is  it  as 
appropriate  in  his  case?" 

"  No,  no  !"  I  cry,  with  energy,  more  anxious  to  defend  him 
because  I  have  unwittingly  done  him  wrong ;  "  not  in  the 
very  least.  I  never  heard  any  one  more  courteous  to  his 
inferiors." 

"  I  should  have  thought  so,"  papa  answers,  with  a  little  air 
of  satisfaction.  "  I  should  be  much  mistaken  in  him  if  he 
were  not  a  gentleman ;  and  a  gentleman  is  always  considerate 
and  courteous  to  those  beneath  him.  And  Lady  Montagu, — 
you  liked  her?" 

'^'^ I  loved  her P'  I  reply,  with  enthusiasm;  "the  dearest, 
sweetest,  kindest  old  lady  I  ever  saw." 

"  She  can  hardly  come  under  the  denomination  of  an  old 
lady,"  remarks  papa.  "  She  cannot  be  more  than  fifty-one 
or  two." 

"  Well,  no,"  I  assent,  "  perhaps  hardly  old  ;  but  her  hair  is 
silvery,  and  she  is  rather  an  invalid,  and  altogether  she  gives 
one  the  idea  of  being — well,  not  young." 

"  Sir  Hector  is  a  good  many  years  older,"  says  papa.  "  But 
I  do  not  think  he  ever  seemed  a  young  man, — never  since  I 
remember  him  ;  he  was  always  stifi"  and  pompous,  and  rather 
bald.  She  was  a  very  lovely  girl  when  he  married  her.  I 
remember  losing  my  heart  to  her  when  I  was  a  boy  in  jackets 
just  before  they  were  married.  I  believe"  (laughing)  "  I  had 
serious  thoughts  of  asking  her  to  fly  with  me,  and  of  fighting 
a  duel  with  him  afterwards.  I  suppose  he  has  quite  succeeded 
in  crushing  all  spirit  out  of  her  by  this  time." 

"  Horrid  old  wretch !"  I  exclaim,  with  vindictive  energy. 


DIANA'S  STORY.  247 

"  It  would  be  a  very  good  thing  for  everybody  if  be  were  to 
break  bis  iicek  !  The  people  about  hate  him  ;  and  Mr.  Mon- 
tagu, I  am  sure,  would  make  an  excellent  landlord." 

"  I  am  sure  he  would,"  says  papa,  with  approving  warmth. 

"  Papa,"  I  say,  looking  at  him  inquisitively,  "what  makes 
you  so  fond  of  Mr.  Montagu  ?" 

"  Is  it  surprising  that  I  should  like  him  ?"  asks  papa.  "  Do 
not  you?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  I  answer,  indifferently. 

There  the  subject  drops,  and  we  fall  to  talking  about  Curly. 

The  following  day  I  observe  that  papa  is  preoccupied.  He 
does  not  talk  much,  and  ever  and  anon  I  feel  his  eyes  fixed 
on  me,  and  I  fancy  he  sighs.  It  is  a  wet,  cold  day,  and  in 
the  evening  we  have  a  fire.  I  sit  down  on  the  hearth  in 
my  favorite  attitude,  with  my  arm  resting  on  papa's  knees. 
He  is  silent,  and  I  too  am  seeing  pictures  in  the  live  coals, 
and  thinking  unprofitable  thoughts.  Presently  I  feel  his  hand 
upon  my  head,  and  hear  his  voice. 

''  Di,"  it  says,  "  what  made  you  refuse  Mr.  Montagu  ?" 

My  heart  leaps  into  my  mouth :  for  the  first  time  it  strikes 
me  that  I  am  not  the  only  person  whom  the  matter  con- 
cerns. 

"  How  do  you  know  that  I  did?"  I  ask,  evasively,  keeping 
my  face,  which  vies  with  them,  turned  towards  the  glowing 
coals. 

"  I  had  a  letter  from  him  this  morning, — a  most  manly, 
straightforward,  and,  I  must  say,  touching  letter." 

"  Where  is  it?"  I  ask,  in  a  faltering  voice,  as  the  dreadful 
thought  crosses  me  that  he  will  have  laid  the  blame  upon  his 
brother.  And  what  account,  I  think  witli  shame,  can  I  give 
pa]»a  of  what  has  taken  place  between  him  and  me? 

"  Here  is  the  letter,"  says  papa  gravely,  drawing  it  from 
bis  pocket;  and  with  treniljling  hands  and  downcast  eyes  I 
take  it,  and  read  thus : 


248  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"  Dear  Mr.  Carew, — 

"  Wlion  you  gave  permission  for  your  daughter  to  visit  my 
mother,  you  also  consented,  if  there  appeared  any  chance  of 
luy  suit  being  successful,  to  my  asking  her  to  become  my  wife. 
I  have  ventured  to  put  my  fortune  to  the  test,  not,  I  must 
frankly  own,  because  Miss  Carew  gave  me  any  encouragement, 
but  because,  being  constantly  in  her  presence  and  seeing  how 
altogether  sweet  and  lovable  she  is,  I  could  no  longer  control 
my  impatience.  I  spoke  my  heart  to  her,  I  fear,  without  due 
reflection,  and  I  cannot  but  blame  myself  for  my  haste  and 
warmth,  which  may  perhaps  have  repelled  her.  But  after 
what  passed  between  us  I  no  longer  dare  encourage  the  hope 
of  being  more  to  her  than  a  friend.  It  is  my  own  fault,  of 
course, — I  am  not,  I  fear,  a  man  calculated  to  inspire  love  in 
a  young,  high-spirited  girl, — and  yet  not  my  faulty  for  God 
knows  if  I  could  change  anything  in  myself  to  make  me  more 
pleasing  to  one  whom  I  love  so  devotedly,  no  effort  would 
seem  to  me  too  great.  My  feeling  for  Miss  Carew  will  never 
undergo  any  change :  that  need  be  no  matter  for  speculation  : 
it  is  a  certainty  on  which  I  should  like  her  to  rely,  though  not 
to  vex  herself  with.  If  it  were  possible  for  her  everto  enter- 
tain a  warmer  feeling  for  me,  I  want  her  to  Icnow  that  my  love 
for  her  will  always  be  what  it  is  now.  I  go  abroad  to-night : 
at  some  future  time,  when  I  am  better  able  than  I  should  be 
now  to  endure  the  sight  of  her,  knowing  that  my  love  is  hope- 
less, you  will,  I  trust,  let  me  visit  your  house  on  the  old 
friendly  terms.  Meanwhile,  believe  me  always  most  sincerely 
yours,  Hector  Montagu. 

"  P-S. — I  have  read  over  the  few  cold,  formal  lines  that  I 
have  written :  they  must  remain  what  they  are,  lest  I  should 
be  unmanned  by  writing  what  is  in  my  heart." 

I  read  the  letter  carefully.  It  strikes  me  with  a  cold  chill : 
to  me  it  does  not  seem  a  natural  letter  from  a  man  who  loved 


DIANA'S  STORY.  249 

passionately,  despairingly.  I  do  not  even  feel  sorry  for  liim  : 
my  chief  sensation  is  one  of  thankfulness  that  he  has  avoided 
all  mention  of  his  brother,  and  a  slightly  aggrieved  feeling 
against  papa  for  having  consented  to  Mr.  Montagu's  proposal 
without  the  slightest  hint  to  me.  I  understand  it  all  now, — 
why  at  Alford  they  looked  upon  me  as  Hector  s  'pro-perty. 
Papa  had  given  consent,  so  they  thought  mine  was  sure  to 
follow :  it  must  be  a  settled  aflPair.  I  do  not  return  the  letter 
after  reading  it,  but  sit  staring  at  the  fire.  A  mist  gathers 
before  my  eyes.     At  last  I  say,  reproachfully, — 

"  Papa,  how  could  you?" 

"  How  could  I  do  what,  Di  ?" 

"  Let  me  go  there  knowing  all  the  time — Why  did  you  not 
ask  me  ?  I  should  have  told  you  the  truth,  that  I  never  could 
care  for  him  except  as  a  friend.  If  I  had  known,  nothing 
would  have  induced  me  to  go  to  Alford." 

"  That  is  what  I  felt  sure  of,"  answers  papa,  gravely.  "  To 
tell  a  girl  that  she  is  going  on  a  visit  with  such  an  end  in  view 
is  naturally  to  make  her  utterly  disinclined  to  it.  And  yet" 
(sighing)  "  that  was  the  end  in  view.  I  saw  that  he  was  de- 
voted to  you ;  I  knew  that  if  you  married  him  it  would  re- 
lieve me  of  the  anxiety  that  has  always  tormented  me  about 
your  future;  and  I  believed  firmly  that  seeing  him  at  home 
and  becoming  aware  of  the  good  qualities  which  I  know  he 
possesses,  and  which  his  natural  shyness  impels  him  to  hide  in 
society,  you  would  come  to  care  for  him.  I  think  still  that 
such  would  have  been  the  case  had  he  not,  as  he  admits,  been 
in  too  great  a  hurry." 

"  Never  !"  I  cry,  emphatically  ;  "  never  !" 

"  I  wonder,"  says  papa,  wearily,  "  what  perverse  fate  makes 
girls  always  gs  dead  against  their  parents'  wishes  in  these 
matters  ?" 

"  And  I  wonder,"  T  answer,  mournfully,  "  why  parents 
never  think  their  daughters  can  have  any  feeling  of  their  own 


250  POR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

about  the  mcii  tliey  are  to  marry?  Pai^a^'  (stealing  one  hand 
into  liis),  "  am  I  a  burden  to  you  ?"  (tears  springing  in  my 
eyes).     "  Do  you  want  to  get  rid  of  me?" 

"  God  forbid,  cliild !"  says  papa,  his  eyes  becoming  misty 
too,  as  he  strokes  my  head  fondly.  "  It  is  an  unfortunate 
business,  but  we  will  say  no  more  about  it." 

So  the  subject  drops. 

Life  wears  a  changed  aspect  for  me  since  that  visit  to  "War- 
rington. Before  then  I  was  as  blithe  as  a  bird,^ — not  a  care 
had  I ;  and  now  my  heart  is  often  heavy  and  full  of  strange 
passionate  longings.  Sometimes  I  almost  hate  my  life.  I 
weary  so  bitterly  for  the  sight  of  one  face,  for  the  sound  of 
one  voice ;  and  as  yet  only  one  week  has  passed  since  I  left 
Alford.  My  simple  home  pursuits  have  lost  their  interest  for 
me.  I  go  through  them  as  dull,  dreary  duties.  My  books, 
too,  no  longer  have  the  same  charm :  now  that  I  have  my 
own  I'omance,  all  others  seem  stale  and  flat 

One  afternoon  I  have  been  for  a  long  walk.  I  want  to  tire 
my  body  in  order  to  benumb  my  mind,  and  I  come  in  wearied 
out  and  fling  myself  into  a  chair. 

"  Why,  my  dear,"  exclaims  Gay,  reproachfully,  "  what  ever's 
come  to  you,  to  make  you  go  tag-ragging  about  the  country, 
wearing  yourself  to  a  shadow  ?  Why,  it's  my  belief  you've 
fell  away  pounds  and  pounds  since  you  came  back  from  Al- 
ford, only  a  week  since.  I  misdoubt  me"  (with  a  shrewd 
glance)  "  as  you've  left  a  little  bit  of  your  heart  behind  you 
there." 

"  You  are  an  old  goose  !"  I  answer.  "  Get  me  some  tea  ; 
1  am  dying  for  something  to  eat.  When  people  are  in  love, 
you  know,"  I  add,  with  a  somewhat  lugubrious  smile,  "  they 
don't  want  to  eat." 

"  Don't  tell  me !"  returns  Gay,  with  scorn.  "  I've  seen 
many  a  score  of  folks  in  love  in  my  time,  and  I  never  know'd 
it  to  interfere  with  their  appetites  yet;  that  I  didn't.     IJut  all 


DIANA'S  STORY.  251 

through  your  being  out  tii'ing  yourself  for  no  good,  you've 
gone  and  missed  a  grand  visitor  as  wanted  most  particular  to' 
see  you." 

A  pang  of  expectation  goes  through  my  heart ;  it  takes  my 
breath  away.     Oh,  if  it  should  be 

"  Who  was  it?"  I  askj  in  a  quivering  voice,  doing  violence 
tc  myself  not  to  seem  eager. 

"  Well,  it  was  Mrs.  Warrington,"  returns  Gay ;  and  my 
heart  sinks  to  its  proper  level. 

"  Mrs.  Warrington,"  I  repeat,  musingly.  "  I  am  sorry  I 
was  out.     Did  she  see  papa?" 

"  Ay,  that  she  did ;  she  was  with  him  the  best  part  of  an 
hour,  I  reckon." 

"  Where  is  he?"  I  inquire. 

''  In  the  study.  Now,  my  dear,  do  wait  until  you've  had 
your  tea"  (seeing  that  I  am  hastily  about  to  go). 

"  I  shall  be  back  directly,"  I  answer,  with  my  hand  on  the 
door. 

"  So  you  have  had  a  visitor !"  I  cry,  breaking  in  suddenly 
upon  papa. 

"  Yes,"  he  replies,  rather  gravely. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  I  ask,  quickly,  divining  by  his  face 
that  something  is  wrong. 

"  She  brought  rather  a  shocking  piece  of  news,"  says  papa. 

I  feel  myself  turning  ghostly  white. 

Why  is  it  that  my  first  thought  is  always  of  him  now  ? 

"  What  is  it?"  I  ask,  with  a  faltering  voice. 

"  Sir  Hector  Montagu  was  thrown  from  his  horse  the  d.iy 
before  yesterday,  and  is  not  exj^ected  to  live.  lie  has  not 
spoken  since." 

I  am  intensely  shocked,  and  forget,  as  one  always  does  on 
such  occasions,  how  little  I  had  liked  him.  My  only  feeling 
is  one  of  sympathy  and  distress  at  his  being  overtaken  by  so 
awful  a  fate. 


252  FOR   A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"  His  son,"  continues  papa,  not  looking  at  me,  "  has  gone 
off  suddenly  abroad,  and  they  do  not  quite  know  where  to  find 
him.    'Tliat  adds  greatly  to  poor  Lady  Montagu's  distress." 

I  hang  my  head  and  feel  guilty, — though  indeed  I  scarcely 
know  why  I  should. 

"  The  other  son  was  telegraphed  for,  and  has  arrived." 

To  this  I  make  no  answer.  Although  he  is  so  near  me,  I 
know  there  is  as  little  chance  of  my  seeing  him  as  if  he  were 
in  Kamschatka. 

"  But,"  says  papa,  changing  his  tone  and  looking  at  me 
with  a  slight  smile,  "  Mrs.  Warrington's  errand  to-day  was  of 
a  cheerful  nature ;  though  I  have  hardly  prepared  you  very 
well  to  receive  it.     What  do  you  think  she  came  for,  Di  ?" 

I  shake  my  head,  not  feeling  in  the  humor  to  guess  or  be 
expectant. 

"  I  do  not  know,  unless  it  was  to  invite  us  there,"  I  reply  ; 
"  and  that  is  not  very  probable,  as  Claire  told  me  she  was 
going  to  London  for  six  weeks  almost  immediately." 

"  What  do  you  say  to  her  wanting  to  take  you  with  her?" 

I  feel  my  eyes  opening  very  wide,  but  my  voice  fails  me  for 
sheer  surprise.  Then,  as  one  or  two  important  facts  occur  to 
me,  I  return  from  wonder-land,  and  remark,  calmly, — 

"  Of  course  you  told  her  it  was  impossible  ?" 

"  But  suppose  I  thought  it  was  not  altogether  impossible  ?" 
returns  papa,  looking  a  little  amused :  "  what  then  ?" 

"  What  then  ?"  I  echo,  placing  myself  on  his  knee  and 
drawing  the  dark  hair  lovingly  back  from  his  white  forehead, 
"  I  should  think  my  dearest  Dad  was  qualifying  for  the 
County  Asylum." 

"  I  should  have  been  inclined  to  think  so  myself  a  few 
hours  ago,"  he  returns ;  "  but  Mrs.  Warrington  has  reduced 
my  objections  to  nothing,  and  I  have  almost  given  consent." 

"  Mrs.  Warrington  must  be  a  very  wonderful  woman,"  I 
remark,  amazed.     "  But,  papa,  you  must  know  quite  well 


DIANA'S  STORY.  253 

wlien  we  come  to  tliink  it  over  calmly,  that  it  is  quite  impos- 
sible on  account  of  money,  if  nothing  else." 

"  Listen,  and  judge  for  yourself  Mrs.  Warrington  was 
going  to  bring  out  one  of  her  nieces  this  year ;  she  had  al- 
ready presented  her  at  court,  and  was  to  have  been  in  London 
now  to  chaperon  her.  Three  weeks  ago  the  young  lady  eloped 
with  the  curate,  much  to  the  indignation  of  the  family,  and 
the  aunt's  chagrin.  '  Now,'  said  Mrs.  Warrington,  very  pleas- 
antly, '  I  am  getting  an  old  woman,  but  sad  to  say,  I  am  as 
fond  of  gayety  as  ever,  though  I  have  sufficient  discretion  to 
see  that  it  does  not  look  well  for  me  to  be  going  about  to  all 
sorts  of  gay  parties  without  some  apparent  excuse.  That  is 
why  I  always  undertake  every  year  to  bring  out  some  j^retty 
girl  of  my  acquaintance.  I  won't  have  a  plain  one.  So,'  she 
finished^  '  if  you  will  intrust  your  daughter  to  my  care,  you 
will  be  conferring  a  real  favor  upon  me,  and  it  will  be  a  good 
thing  for  her  at  the  same  time.'  " 

I  shake  my  head,  feeling  mournfully  how  little  pleasure 
gayety  would  be  capable  of  giving  me  now. 

"  I  do  not  want  to  leave  you,  papa ;  and  pray  where  is  the 
money  to  come  from  ?" 

"  That  will  be  all  right,"  says  papa,  smiling ;  "  and  I  wish 
you  to  go, — more  particularly"  (looking  grave  again)  "  after 
what  has  happened  lately." 

"  Let  us  think  about  it,"  I  petition.  But  in  the  end  it  is 
decided  that  I  am  to  go.  I  take  it  very  calmly.  Somehow 
things  that  would  have  filled  me  with  wonder  and  delight  six 
months  ago  make  very  little  impression  upon  me  now. 


22 


254  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 

Diana's  story. 

I  SUPPOSE  it  would  be  utterly  impossible  to  a  bred-and-born 
dweller  iu  cities  feintly  to  conjecture  the  feelings  of  tlie  country 
uiuuse  who  for  the  first  time  enters  a  big  city,  never  having 
seen  any  larger  agglomeration  of  houses  and  shops  than  her 
own  little  country  town.  I  was  as  utterly  bewildered  the  first 
few  days  of  my  stay  in  London  as  if  I  had  been  suddenly 
transplanted  to  another  world.  The  noise,  the  tumult,  the 
splendor,  the  misery,  the  countless  crowds  of  people,  the  end- 
less stream  of  carriages,  vans,  carts,  cabs,  omnibuses,  filled  me 
with  a  wonder  that  words  are  utterly  inadequate  to  express. 
For  the  first  week,  I  believe,  my  mouth  never  assumed  any 
shape  but  one  round  0  of  astonishment.  Mr.  Warrington 
was  delighted,  and  insisted  upon  taking  me  everywhere,  and 
telling  every  one  we  met,  rather  to  my  confusion,  what  a  treat 
it  was  to  go  about  with  a  young  lady  who  had  never  been  in 
London  before,  and  who  was  not  hlasee.  The  utter  change 
(Certainly  did  my  spirits  good.  I  had  no  time  to  think  in  the 
day,  and  at  night  I  was  so  tired  out  that  the  moment  I  put  my 
head  on  the  pillow  I  was  asleep. 

Before  I  left  home,  we  heard  that  Sir  Hector  Montagu  was 
dead,  and  that  his  eldest  son  had  returned.  I  wrote  to  poor 
Lady  Montagu.  It  was  a  difficult  task,  as  it  needs  must  be 
when  one  can  truthfully  say  nothing  good  of  the  dead  ;  but  I 
did  my  best. 

One  day,  when  we  were  driving  down  St.  James  Street,  we 
met  Captain  Montagu  coming  up.  He  smiled,  bowed,  and 
would  have  pa.ssed  on,  but  Mrs.  Warrington  stopped  the  car- 


DIANA'S  STORY.  255 

riage.  It  was  a  moment  of  utter  and  intenseJiappiness  to  me, 
after  the  first  confusion,  to  hear  his  voice  and  meet  his  eyes 
once  more. 

Mrs.  Warrington  asked  after  his  mother,  and  he  looked 
grave  as  he  answered  that  she  was  really  ill,  and  took  his  poor 
father's  death  most  grievously  to  heart.  She  had  a  cousin 
staying  with  her,  and  Hector  was  at  home  now. 

Mrs.  Warrington  begged  him  to  call,  and  to  come  some 
evening  to  dine  in  a  friendly  way.  He  replied  that  he  was 
not  going  out  at  present,  but  would  come  some  night  when 
they  were  quite  alone.  Then  he  wished  us  good-by,  and  as 
we  rolled  on  our  way  I  felt  ^radiant ;  everything  seemed  to 
take  a  rosy  hue.  The  days  roll  by,  and  he  has  not  called. 
Every  afternoon  I  look  eagerly  over  the  array  of  cards.  Some- 
times a  black-bordered  one  raises  hope  in  my  breast,  but  only 
to  dash  it  to  the  ground  on  nearer  inspection. 

"  Does  he  not  care  to  see  me  ?"  I  think,  grieved  in  my  very 
heart. 

I  meet  many  men,  some  of  whom  I  like  very  much ;  most 
of  them  are  kind  and  pleasant  to  me,  but  not  one  in  my  eyes 
can  be  compared  with  him.  Colonel  Fane  is  in  town.  I  am 
always  glad  to  see  him :  he  seems,  by  the  side  of  my  new 
acquaintances,  quite  an  old  friend. 

Nearly  a  fortnight  has  elapsed,  when  one  morning  Mrs. 
Warrington,  amidst  Jaer  numerous  engagements,  remembers 
that  Captain  Montagu  has  not  called. 

"  I  will  write  a  line  and  ask  him  to  dine  with  us  on  Sun- 
day," she  exclaims.  "  It  is  our  only  disengaged  evening  for  a 
long  time.  By  the  way,  Diana"  (drawing  a  sheet  of  paper 
before  her),  "  did  I  not  hear  that  you  had  been  staying  at 
Alford  ?" 

''  I  was  there  nearly  a  fortnight,"  I  answer. 

''  Was  Charlie  at  home  ?" 

"  Only  for  one  day,"  I  say,  bending  over  my  work. 


256  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"  Hector  of  course  was  there?" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  how  did  you  get  on  with  him  ?"  (looking  up  at  me). 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  I  stammer. 

"  Do  you  like  him  ?" 

"  Yes,"  I  answer,  indifferently. 

"  How  came  you  to  stay  there?"  Mrs.  Warrington  is  evi- 
dently in  a  very  questioning  mood. 

"  Lady  Montagu  asked  me." 

"  And  Hector — Sir  Hector  now — asked  his  mother  to  in- 
vite you,  I  suppose.  Ah,  my  dear,  I  have  great  hopes  of 
seeing  you  Lady  Montagu  yet !" 

I  feel  a  little  impatient.  "That  you  never  will,"  I  say, 
briskly.     "  I  do  not  mean  to  marry  at  all." 

"  Oh,  indeed  !"  she  rejoins,  looking  amused.  "  Well,  time 
will  show.  But  I  thought  it  was  only  girls  who  could  not 
marry  the  object  of  their  affections  who  said  that;  and  you 
have  not  had  any  opportunity  yet  of  contracting  a  hopeless 
attachment."     And  she  laughs  good-humoredly. 

Captain  Montagu  writes  to  say  that  he  will  dine  on  Sunday, 
and  again  my  spirits  rise.  It  is  seven  o'clock  on  Thursday 
evening  when  I  hear  the  joyful  intelligence  :  from  that  mo- 
ment I  count  the  hours  until  I  shall  see  him.  As  the  time 
draws  near,  an  overpowering  anxiety  seizes  me  lest  he  should 
be  prevented  coming ;  if  he  is,  I  feel  the  disappointment  will 
be  greater  than  I  can  bear. 

I  am  not  called  on  to  bear  it.  Sunday  comes.  I  attend 
morning  church  with  Mr.  Warrington ;  we  have  visitors  to 
lunch,  visitors  after  lunch ;  we  take  a  stroll  in  the  Park,  sit 
under  the  trees,  greet  many  acquaintances,  and  the  hours, 
however  slowly  they  may  drag  themselves  along,  do  pass  some- 
how to  make  way  for  the  hours  that  will  gallop  furiously  as 
all  hours  do  that  are  pleasant.  And  that  they  will  be  pleasant 
it  never  enters  my  mind  to  doubt. 


DIANA'S  STORY.  257 

Eight  o'clock  comes  at  last,  and  with  it  the  guest.  It  seems 
happiness  enough  for  the  present  to  be  in  the  same  room  with 
him,  but  I  have  a  vague  expectation  that  at  some  time  in  the 
evening  he  will  find  means  to  press  my  hand  or  whisper  some 
kind  word  to  me  that  will  give  my  hungry  heart  food  to  live 
upon  until  I  see  him  again.  During  dinner  he  laughs  and 
talks  much  in  his  usual  strain ;  perhaps  he  is  a  shade  more 
subdued ;  now  and  then  he  addresses  some  pleasant  remark  to 
me,  but  there  is  nothing  in  his  voice  or  glance  that  makes  me 
feel  as  if  I  were  anything  more  to  him  than  an  ordinary  ac- 
quaintance. After  dinner  he  asks  me  to  sing,  and  we  go 
together  to  the  piano  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room,  while 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Warrington  subside  into  a  pleasant  doze. 

I  feel  my  heart  beating  and  my  hands  trembling  as  I  turn  over 
the  music.  Has  he  nothing  to  say  to  me  in  memory  of  that 
moonlight  night  in  the  woods  with  the  silver  primroses  ?  Ap- 
parently nothing.  I  try  to  sing,  but  something  in  my  throat 
chokes  me, — tears,  perhaps.  He  does  not  press  me  to  con- 
tinue, but  talks  about  my  visit  to  London,  the  sights  I  have 
Been,  the  balls  I  have  been  to,  the  acquaintances  I  have  made. 

"  I  am  surprised,"  he  says,  laughing,  "  that  you  have  not 
been  to  Madame  Tussaud's  and  the  Tower." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  the  Tower,"  I  answer,  "  but  I  do  not 
think  Madame  Tussaud's  would  amuse  me." 

"  I  will  ask  Mrs.  Warrington  to  come  and  lunch  with  me 
at  the  Tower,  and  we  will  show  you  all  the  wonders,  if  you 
like.  Mrs.  Warrington,  will  you  come?  and  afterwards  you 
must  have  tea  in  my  rooms  :  you  have  promised  me  dozens  of 
times,  but  it  has  never  come  off  yet." 

Mrs.  Warrington  assents,  the  day  is  fixed,  and  presently 
Captain  Montagu  takes  his  leave.  I  rush  away  to  my  room  ; 
my  heart  feels  ready  to  break  ;  not  by  one  little  look  or  sign 
has  he  given  me  to  understand  that  he  even  remembers  that 
"golden  day"  at  Alford.    I  try  to  pluck  up  my  pride,  to  bring 

22* 


258  FOR   A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

it  to  the  rescue  of  my  foolish  love,  but  it  will  not  be  goaded 
or  ursod,  however  sharp  the  la.sh  with  wliich  I  .scourge  it.  "  I 
know — I  alwaj's  knew^I  never  could  be  anything  to  him, 
but  he  might  have  shown  some  little  sign  that  he  remem- 
bered," 1  keep  on  saying  miserably  to  myself.  I  lose  all  hope. 
I  do  not  even  look  forward  to  the  luncheon-party  at  the  Tower. 
'•  Perhaps,"  I  say  indignantly  to  myself,  "  he  is  afraid  of  my 
taking  in  serious  earnest  what  passed  that  night  in  the  wood, 
and  wishes  to  convince  me  that  it  was  only  said  in  haste  and 
repented  at  leisure.  He  might  have  trusted  me,"  I  think, 
bitterly. 

"  Remember,"  says  Mrs.  Warrington,  playfully,  "  I  am  not 
going  to  have  you  fall  in  love  with  Charlie  Montagu,  both  for 
your  sake  and  his." 

She  does  not  dream  how  much  too  late  her  caution  comes ; 
that  is  one  mercy  to  be  thankful  for.  I  have  tried  so  hard 
to  feel  bitter  and  angry  with  him,  and  yet  when  he  comes 
out  to  receive  us,  looking  so  handsome  and  so  glad  to  see  us, 
the  little  mountain  of  wrath  I  have  labored  to  raise  crumbles 
away  to  dust. 

"  We  are  to  be  ^.j^ni'ti  carre,^^  he  says,  gayly,  to  Mrs.  Wai 
rington.     "  We  cannot  tax  IMiss  Carew  to  do  third  to  our  flir- 
tation, can  we  ?     And  she  would  not  do  it  well.     It  wants  a 
great  deal  of  experience  to  make  a  good  third.     So  I  have 
asked  Seldon ;  you  know  him,  I  think." 

"  Slightly,"  Mrs.  Warrington  answers.  Then  she  looks  at 
me  and  whispers  something  to  Captain  Montagu,  and  they 
both  laugh. 

"  Here  he  is,"  says  the  latter,  as  a  hansom  rattles  up. 
"  How  are  you,  Seldon?  You  know  Mrs.  Warrington.  Miss 
Carew.     Lord  Seldon." 

The  new-comer  has  a  very  bright,  cheery  face.  He  looks 
extremely  young, — younger,  I  should  think,  than  he  is,  or  his 
education  would  hardly  be  completed ;  he  is  very  fair,  with 


DIANA'S  STORY.  259 

light-blue  eyes,  a  large  nose,  and  a  good-tempered  mouth, 
shaded  by  the  silkiest  down  ;  not  handsome,  certainly,  but 
perhaps  if  he  were  not  standing  next  to  Captain  Montagu  he 
might  be  rather  good-looking.  He  reminds  me  ever  such  a 
little  bit  of  Curly.  We  get  on  famously  together  :  he  makes 
me  laugh  as  every  now  and  then  his  natural  boyishness  peeps 
through  his  assumption  of  manhood.  He  has  brought  the 
sweetest  Collie  dog  with  him,  which  he  puts  through  a  variety 
of  performances  for  my  benefit.  We  look  out  of  window 
together,  and  are  very  much  amused  by  an  officer  in  a  blue 
coat,  who  is  superintending  with  evident  anxiety  the  trying 
on  of  the  men's  new  red  coats. 

"I  wish  I  was  a  soldier! — by  George  I  do!"  cries  my 
young  lord,  regretfully.  "  Isn't  it  an  awful  shame  they 
wouldn't  let  me  be  one  ?" 

"Why  would  they  not?"  I  ask. 

"  My  governor's  so  frightfully  nervous ;  he  thinks  I  should 
get  killed  ;  and  I  am,  unfortunately,  the  only  son.  He  can't 
even  bear  me  to  go  out  hunting.  It's  only  a  wonder  I  haven't 
broken  my  neck  fifty  times,  for  his  worrying  me  makes  me  do 
things  I  shouldn't  otherwise,  just  because  I  won't  be  made 
a  molly-coddle  of.  Talking  of  hunting,  —  I  suppose  you 
hunt?" 

"  No,"  I  answer. 

"  What  do  you  do  ?"  (curiously).  "  You  don't"  (looking 
at  me  doubtfully) — "  surely  you  don't  go  about  reading  to  old 
women  and  teacbing  the  choir  ?" 

"  Why,"  I  ask,  laughing,  "  am  I  bound  to  do  either  one  or 
the  other  ?" 

"  Well,  you  know,"  he  answers,  explanatorily,  "  I  have  two 
sisters :  one  is  rather — well,  not  exactly  fast — lively,  and  she 
is  never  happy  out  of  the  saddle ;  and  the  other, — the  other 
is  religious,  and  is  always  taken  up  with  what  she  calls  parish- 
work.     Parish- work  I"  he  repeats,  with  an  accent  of  disgust: 


200  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"  doesn't  it  sound  the  reverse  of  tempting  ?  It's  dreadful  for 
me  being  between  two  fires ! — my  youngest  sister  is  always 
making  fun  of  the  eldest,  and  the  eldest  tries  to  sit  upon  the 
youngest,  and  you  know  its  rather  a  bore  for  me,  because  I 
like  'em  both.  By  the  way"  (with  a  rapid  change  of  sub- 
ject), "  have  you  ever  seen  polo  ?  Of  course  you've  seen 
polo  ?" 

"  Not  yet,"  I  say ;  "  we  are  going  one  day,  but  I  am  not 
sure  I  shall  like  it.     I  have  an  idea  that  it  must  be  cruel." 

"  Cruel ! — not  a  bit  of  it ! — the  ponies  love  it  as  much  as 
the  men  :  on  my  honor  they  do.  I've  got  the  loveliest  pony, 
— bought  her  of  one  of  the  9th.  I  give  you  my  word  when 
I  go  into  the  stable  and  say,  '  Polo  day,  old  girl !'  she  pricks 
up  her  ears  and  neighs  with  delight." 

. "  When  you've  quite  done  yarning,  Seldon,"  calls  Captain 
Montagu,  "  bring  Miss  Carew  to  lunch." 

Everything  goes  oif  pleasantly :  that  is  to  say,  every  one 
laughs  and  talks  and  eats.  After  lunch,  we  go  over  the 
Tower,  Captain  IMontagu  remaining  in  strict  attendance  on 
Mrs.  Warrington.  It  is  quite  evident  he  has  resolved  to 
have  nothing  more  to  say  to  me  than  to  an  ordinary  acquaint- 
ance ;  and,  however  bitterly  I  may  feel  it,  I  am  forced  out- 
wardly to  acquiesce  with  a  smile.  My  escort  is  exceedingly 
lively :  he  makes  fun  of  everything,  and  I  cannot  help  laugh- 
ing at  his  sallies.  It  is  not  that  they  are  very  witty  or  have 
much  point,  but  his  gay  spirits  are  infectious,  and  I  am  ready 
to  laugh  at  anything,  for  I  feel  so  near  crying. 

"  Remember,"  says  Captain  Montagu,  when  we  have  seen 
everything  and  emerge  again  into  the  open  air,  "  the  tea-party 
is  still  before  you.  I  have  ordered  it  for  half-past  four.  I 
will  send  for  your  carriage,  and  Seldon  and  I  will  follow  in  a 
hansom." 

But  Mrs.  Warrington  insists  upon  their  accompanying  us 
in  the  carriage. 


DIANA'S  STORY.  261 

How  often  have  I  thought  about  those  rooms  of  which  he 
once  told  me,  and  wondered  what  they  were  like,  and  tried  to 
picture  him  at  home  in  them. 

"I  feel  c|uite  a  '  frisky  matron,'  "  laughs  good-natured  Mrs. 
Warrington,  as  he  lets  us  in  with  his  latch-key  and  then  pre- 
cedes us  up-stairs.  "  Diana,  my  dear,  it  is  you  who  have  led 
me  into  this." 

"  I  wish,"  whispers  young  Seldon  in  my  ear  from  behind, 
"  you  would  persuade  her  to  come  and  have  tea  or  lunch  in 
my  rooms.  They're  rattling  nice  ones  ;  though  I  don't  mean 
to  say  for  a  moment  they're  furnished  like  these." 

Captain  Montagu  throws  the  door  open,  and  we  pass  in. 

"  This  is  charming !"  exclaims  Mrs.  Warrington.  "  I  must 
really  congratulate  j'ou.  I  have  heard  of  your  rooms  before, 
but  this  quite  surpasses  my  expectations." 

"  I  am  delighted  with  your  approval,"  he  answers,  gayly. 
"Have  I  yours  too.  Miss  Carew?"  And,  without  waiting 
for  my  answer,  he  calls  his  servant  and  gives  some  orders  in 
an  under-tone.  I  look  round  me.  The  room  is  not  large, 
but  it  would  take  hours,  rather  than  minutes,  to  inventory  all 
the  treasures  in  it.  They  seem  scattered  about  in  careless 
profusion,  but  the  carelessness  is  evidently  the  result  of  most 
artistic  study.  The  furniture  is  of  ebony,  covered  in  richest 
satin,  on  which  bloom  roses  embroidered  in  the  land  of  roses; 
the  luxurious  carpet  laid  down  in  the  centre  of  the  room  is 
of  an  exquisite  shade  of  blue  ;  the  chandelier,  sconces,  mirror- 
frames,  are  of  Venetian  glass,  with  raised  flowers  of  rose-color 
and  blue.  Every  couch,  every  chair,  every  stool,  is  studiously 
luxurious ;  the  walls  are  covered  with  charming  pictures ; 
there  are  bronzes,  statuettes,  groups  of  china,  cabinets  of  rare 
wood,  inlaid  with  S6vres,  and  yet  the  thing  that  strikes  me  as 
the  most  strange  is  that  the  room  looks  as  if  it  were  lived  in  ; 
there  is  even,  however  slight,  the  faintest  sonpron  of  cigar- 
smoke.     Mrs.  Warrington  detects  it  at  once. 


262  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"  You  do  not  mean  to  say,"  she  says,  in  a  horrified  tone, 
"  that  you  smoke  here  ?" 

"  Not  often,"  he  answers.  •  "  Only  when  I  am  quite  alone  ; 
but  my  smoking-room  adjoins,  and  it  will  creep  through,  you 
know.  Come  and  see  my  bedroom.  I  have  one  or  two 
things  I  want  to  show  you.  I  must  not  ask  Miss  Carew" 
(laughing).  "  Seldon,  make  yourself  very  entertaining  till 
we  come  back." 

"  Do  you  think  she  would  come  if  I  asked  her?"  whispers 
the  latter,  indicating  the  retreating  figure  of  Mrs.  Warrington 
with  a  gesture  of  his  head. 

"I  do  not  know,"  I  answer. 

"  Do  persuade  her,  some  day  after  the  Park.  I  should  be 
so  awfully  proud  and  delighted  if  you  would  both  lunch  with 
me,  and  I'd  ask  Montagu  too"  (as  if  catching  at  a  happy 
thought)  ;  '•  they  seem  to  be  so  fond  of  each  other.  I  didn't 
know"  (irreverently)  "  that  he  had  such  a  taste  for  old 
women." 

I  half  laugh,  half  sigh,  as  I  think  to  myself  what  is  the 
object  of  all  this  attention  towards  my  friend. 

"  Blankshire  is  your  county,  is  it  not  ?"  inquires  my  vt's-d-viis, 
in  an  interested  tone,  and  I  respond  affirmatively. 

I  think  he  has  had  the  conversation  chiefly  to  himself  all 
the  afternoon,  but  he  seems  quite  equal  to  it. 

"  I  don't  know  many  people  there,  but  I  shall  try  and  get 
some  invitations  this  winter.  By  the  way,  I  dare  say  Mon- 
tagu would  a.sk  me :  he  lives  not  very  far  from  you,  doesn't 
he?" 

"  About  fifteen  miles,"  I  say. 

"  Do  you  see  much  of  him  ?" 

"Nothing  at  all, — at  least"  (correcting  myself)  "very 
little." 

"  By  George  !"  (opening  his  blue  eyes),  "  I  know  if  I  lived 
within  fifteen  miles  you'd  see  a  good  deal  of  me." 


DIANA'S  STORV.  263 

At  this  very  barefaced  compliment  from  my  youllirul 
companion  I  am  so  inordinately  diverted  that  I  laugh  out- 
right. He  colors  up,  and  begins  to  trace  rather  viciously 
with  his  stick  a  rose-blossom  that  looks  as  though  it  had 
fallen  by  some  happy  accident  on  the  couch  where  it  lies. 

"  That  lovely  rose,"  I  cry,  in  terror  of  seeing  the  stick  go 
through  it :  "  pray  don't  spoil  it !" 

"  Why  did  you  laugh  ?"  he  asks,  desisting  as  I  beg  him, 
but  still  looking  slightly  aggrieved. 

"I  hardly  know,"  I  say,  trying  to  compose  my  features  to 
gravity.      "  Perhaps   because   you   reminded   me   rather  of 
Curly." 
•  "  Who  is  Curly? — some  very  mirth-inspiring  fellow?" 

"  Curly  is  my  brother.  By  the  way,  I  wonder  if  he  was 
at  Eton  with  you.  I  suppose  you  were  at  Eton  ?"  (interroga- 
tively). 

"  When  did  he  go  ?" 

"  Three  years  last  January." 

Lord  Seldon  glances  at  me  with  rather  a  disgusted  expres- 
sion. 

"  Pray,  how  old  do  you  take  me  for  ?"  he  says,  lifting  * 
dainty  shell-like  cup,  wreathed  with  raised  strawberries,  and 
putting  it  down  again  with  as  little  care  as  if  it  was  a  mug 
with  "  For  a  good  boy"  inscribed  in  gold  letters  upon  it.  ■ 

"I  am  a  very  bad  hand  at  guessing  ages,"  I  reply. 
"  Twenty?"  (thinking  I  will  give  him  the  benefit  of  a  year's 
doubt). 

"•Twenty!"  (indignantly).  "I  came  of  age  last  Septem- 
ber.    I  am  very  nearly  twenty-two." 

Here  we  are  joined  by  the  other  members  of  the  party. 

"  It  is  a  good  thing  you  have  come,"  I  say,  trying  to  assume 
a  gay  manner.  "  Lord  Seldon  has  been  very  nearly  doing  a 
mischief  to  some  of  your  lovely  things." 

"No  wonder,"  retorts   my  lord,  with  a  shade   of  pique. 


264  '  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"  Such  very  young  cliildrcn  arc  not  to  be  trusted  with  pretty 
things." 

"  Come  and  have  tea,"  interrupts  Captain  Montagu,  "  and 
see  what  nectar  a  wretched  lonely  bachelor  can  brew." 

We  fullow  him  as  he  lifts  a  heavy  portiere  and  opens  a  door 
behind  it. 

"  By  George,  Charlie !"  exclaims  his  friend,  in  a  tone  tliat 
betrays  a  mixture  of  admiration  and  regret,  "  what  a  fellow 
you  are  to  think  of  everything  !" 

The'  table  is  strewn  with  choice  flowers ;  a  great  bowl  of 
roses  stands  in  the  centre ;  big  strawberries  peep  from  exqui- 
sitely-shaped china  dishes ;  grapes  and  flowers  hang  from 
Dresden  baskets;  every  kind  of  fanciful  and  pretty  sweetmeat 
is  heaped  in  shells  and  horns,  or  in  tiny  baskets  on  the  heads 
of  Watteau-like  shepherdesses.  There  is  not  a  single  orna- 
ment on  the  table  that  is  not  of  some  quaint  elegant  device ; 
the  chased  silver  service  is  a  marvel  of  elegance,  and  the 
jeweled  Sevres,  from  which  we  drink  our  delicious  tea,  must 
represent  a  small  fortune. 

"  You  wicked,  extravagant  boy  !"  exclaims  Mrs.  Warring- 
ton, after  having  p;:aised  everything  with  enthusiasm  ;  "  how 
dare  you  have  such  a  taste  for  splendor  and  luxury,  with 
nothing  to  keep  it  up  on  but  your  younger  son's  allowance  of 
good  looks  ?" 

"  That's  ihe  worst  of  these  fellows,"  joins  in  Lord  Seldon, 
so  plaintively  that  we  all  laugh  :  "  they  are  so  deuced  good- 
looking  and  have  such  taste.  They  think  of  things  that  never 
enter  our  brains." 

"  I  must  certainly  set  to  work  at  once  to  get  you  a  rich 
wife,"  says  Mrs.  Warrington,  little  guessing  what  a  dagger  her 
playful  words  are  planting  in  my  breast. 

"  Do  !"  Captain  Montagu  says,  smiling  lazily,  and  looking 
as  utterly  unconscious  as  if  he  had  never  taken  me  in  his 
aims  and  asked  me  to  be  his  wife.     '■  Lots  of  my  friends  are 


DIANA'S  STORY.  265 

looking  out.  I  am  quite  ready  to  be  knocked  down  to  the 
highest  bidder."  The  others  laugh :  how  can  I  join  them, 
when  I  am  suffering  the  acutest  pain  that  has  ever  yet  fallen 
to  my  lot  ? 

"Your  face  is  your  fortune,  eh,  Charlie?"  laughs  Lord 
Seldon  ;  then,  with  a  gesture  of  disgust,  "  But  what  a  horrid 
bore  to  marry  a  woman  you  didn't  care  for  !  What  a  horrid 
bore  not  to  marry  the  woman  you  love !" 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  returns  Captain  Montagu,  subsiding  from 
his  mirth  to  unmistakable  gravity,  "  if  you  marry  the  woman 
you  love,  yours  will  be  a  very  happy  fate,  and  a  very  excep- 
tional one." 

Mrs.  Warrington  rises  to  go.  As  the  young  men  bid  us 
good-by  at-  the  carriage-door,  she  invites  Lord  Seldon  to  call 
upon  her. 

"  Thanks  ;  I  shall  be  most  delighted,"  he  answers,  beaming 
with  smiles,  and  shaking  us  as  cordially  by  the  hand  as  if  we 
were  his  oldest  friends. 

"  That  is  on  your  account,  Diana,"  says  Mrs.  Warrington, 
with  a  smile,  as  we  drive  off.  "  He  is  the  Duke  of  Lander- 
mere's  only  son.  The  duke  is  a  great  invalid,  and  fabulously 
rich." 


23 


266  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 


CPIAPTER    XXVIII. 

Diana's  story. 

My  heart  is  full  of  grief  at  the  shattering  of  my  idol ;  for 
shattered  he  is,  crumbled  into  dust,  this  fair  fetish,  golden 
with  my  faith,  jeweled  with  my  love.  The  gold  has  turned 
to  dross,  the  jewels  are  bits  of  gaudy  painted  glass  that  have 
no  worth.  With  all  my  wish  to  shield  him,  with  the  humblest 
consciousness  of  my  own  unworthiness,  my  sense  of  justice 
will  creep  in  and  whisper  to  me  with  relentless  iteration  that 
he  has  not  done  by  me  the  thing  that  is  right.  Did  I  expect 
anything  from  him  ?  Did  I  in  my  wildest  dreams  hope  to  be 
anything  to  him  ?  Would  I  have  permitted  him  to  sacrifice 
himself  to  me,  even  if  he  had  really  willed  it  ?  No.  I  had 
only  asked  of  him  that  one  small  boon, — to  be  allowed  to 
think  that  he  cared  a  little  for  me.  And  it  would  have  been  so 
easy.  One  meaning  pressure  of  my  hand,  one  look  of  his  eyes 
into  mine,  I  should  have  been  content,  and  we  would  have 
held  to  the  bargain  which  he  made  with  me  that  May  night 
with  the  nightingales  and  the  pale  primroses  for  witnesses. 
"  And  now,"  I  think,  bitterly,  "  I  am  numbered  among  those 
other  women  in  whose  society  he  could  not  be  ten  minutes 
without  making  love  to  them."  Have  any  of  them,  I  wonder, 
with  pained  curiosity,  suiFered  as  I  am  doing  ?  Who  feels  any 
pity  for  disappointment  in  love  ?  Pity !  nay,  rather  it  is  a 
cause  for  mirth :  it  is  like  a  cold  in  the  head, — however  un- 
comfortable for  the  time,  it  is  not  daagerous,  the  patient  will 
get  over  it.  There  is  one  mighty  consolation  I  can  hug  to  my 
breast :  my  seci-et  is  in  my  own  keeping  :  if  my  life  has  grown 
blank,  if  my  cherished  illusions  are  scattered  to  the  four  winds. 


DIANA'S  STORY.  267 

if  my  heart  within  me  is  consumed  by  pain,  it  is  unguessed 
at  by  those  around  me.  I  talk,  laugh,  dance,  do  all  that  is 
expected  of  me,  and  doubtless  am  considered  very  fortunate 
and  enviable.  And  so  I  am,  I  tell  myself  over  and  over  again, 
— very  fortunate,  very  enviable  :  not  to  think  myself  so  would 
be  rank  ingratitude  to  the  friends  who  are  so  kind  to  me. 
How  altogether  delightful  the  life  I  am  leading  would  be  if — 
if  there  were  no  ifs  ! 

Captain  Montagu  does  not  come  again  to  the  house  during 
our  stay  in  town,  although  Mrs.  Warrington  invites  him  more 
than  once  ;  but  his  friend  is  a  frequent  guest.  He  has  become 
a  great  favorite  with  both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Warrington,  he  is  so 
bright  and  cheery,  so  full  of  all  a  boy's  pranks  and  spirits,  and 
he  makes  himself  most  perfectly  at  home.  He  persuades  Mrs. 
Warrington  into  the  lunch  at  his  rooms ;  he  insists  upon  a 
Greenwich  dinner  for  the  especial  purpose  of  initiating  me 
into  that  hitherto  unknown  delight ;  he  cajoles  us  into  driving 
down  on  hot  afternoons  to  witness  his  prowess  at  polo  ;  he  wins 
over  Mrs.  Warrington  to  let  him  drive  me  down  to  Richmond 
on  his  drag,  with  Mr.  Warrington  in  attendance  as  chaperon, 
after  considerable  demur,  I  must  say,  ori  her  part ;  he  goes 
down  to  Eton  with  us  to  see  Curly,  and  the  two  become  fast 
friends  at  once ;  we  meet  him  constantly  at  balls,  and  he  is 
oftener  my  partner  than  any  one  else  (for  he  dances  perfectly), 
— though,  counseled  by  my  chaperon,  I  refuse  his  appeals 
when  they  become  too  frequent  or  too  importunate.  He  does 
me  good.  I  feel  ten  times  more  cheerful  in  his  company  :  he 
reminds  me  of  Curly  grown  older  and  less  handsome.  One 
night  at  a  ball,  before  I  have  the  least  idea  of  what  he  i-s 
going  to  do,  he  takes  me  up  to  a  very  stately  lady  ablaze  with 
diamonds. 

"  Miss  Carew,"  he  says,  "  I  want  to  introduce  you  to  my 
mother.  Mother,  you  have  often  heard  mc  speak  of  Miss 
Carew." 


268  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

In  the  erubarrassmont  caused  by  the  suddenness  and  unex- 
pectedness of  his  movement,  I  blusli  and  look  conscious, — the 
very  last  tiling  I  would  have  elected  to  do,  could  I  have  con- 
trolled myself.  The  duchess  receives  me  with  perfect  polite- 
ness, but  in  a  manner  that  convinces  me  the  introduction  is  as 
unwelcome  to  her  as  to  me.  Her  son  remarks  it  too,  I  think, 
for  he  colors  uneasily,  and  very  soon  leads  me  away, — to  my 
infinite  relief  As  we  are  passing  into  another  room,  a  hand- 
some woman  taps  him  on  the  arm  with  her  fan. 

"  Lord  Seldon,  how  is  it  we  never  see  you  now  ?  You  are 
quite  a  stranger." 

He  makes  what  I  consider  rather  a  brusque  response,  and 
hurries  on. 

"  That,"  he  whispers,  with  an  accent  of  disgust,  when  we 
are  out  of  earshot, — "  that  is  the  woman  my  mother  wants 
me  to  marry.'' 

"  Why,  she  must  be  years  older  than  you  !"  I  remark,  be- 
traying my  surprise  very  plainly  in  my  voice ;  and  then  I  fall 
to  laughing.. 

"  What  a  ridiculous  idea  !'  I  continue,  uttering  my  thoughts 
aloud,  for  we  are  very  free  of  speech  to  each  other. 

"  I  don't  know  so  much  about  its  being  ridiculous,"  he  says, 
rather  huffily  ;  "  if  you  said  unsuitable,  now " 

"  I  don't  mean  that,"  I  hasten  to  explain.  "  The  ridicu- 
lousness was  the  idea  of  a  boy  like  you  thinking  of  marrying 
at  all."  We  have  sunk  upon  a  couch,  and  I  am  still  laugh- 
ing. "  I  shall  expect  to  hear  next  that  Curly  is  looking  out 
for  a  wife." 

Lord  Seldon,  for  once,  does  not  join  in  my  mirth  ;  the  color 
mounts  to  his*  face,  and  he  looks  at  me  with  angry  curiosity. 

"Is  your  amusement  genuine?"  he  asks,  "or  is  it  put  on 
for  the  occasion  ?" 

"  Do  I  look  as  if  it  were  put  on  ?"  I  say,  not  quite  able,  in 
spite  of  his  evident  displeasure,  to  resume  my  gravity. 


DIANA'S  STORY.  269 

"  If  I  am  not  a  man  now,"  lie  says,  with  an  air  of  impor- 
tance which  nearly  sets  me  off  again,  "  I'm  afraid  I  haven't 
much  chance  of  ever  becoming  one.  I  am  of  age,  I  can  marry 
to-morrow  if  I  choose,  and,  what's  more,  I  can  marry  whom  I 
choose,"  he  adds,  looking  at  me  with  exultation. 

"  Very  well,"  I  say,  smiling.     "  Ask  me  to  the  wedding." 

"  If  you  are  not  there,"  he  says,  fixing  his  eyes  on  me  with 
an  expression  I  do  not  quite  understand,  "  I  don't  know  who 
will  be." 

At  this  moment  my  partner  for  the  waltz  claims  me,  and  I 
go  off,  leaving  my  lord  sitting,  with  rather  a  sulky  expression, 
on  the  couch. 

"  Seldon  will  be  getting  into  disgrace,"  says  the  new-comer, 
as  he  leads  me  away.  "  I  see  Mrs.  Hastings  looking  daggers 
at  him,  and  Lady  Egidia  anything  but  pleased." 

"  Why  ?"  I  ask. 

"  Oh,  you  know  he  is  generally  in  close  attendance  upon 
Mrs.  Hastings ;  and  it  is  popularly  supposed  that  he  is  to 
marry  Lady  Egidia." 

"  Oh !"  I  answer,  being  somewhat  puzzled  by  these  rival 
claims. 

"Lady  Egidia  and  Mrs.  Hastings  don't  mind  each  other," 
he  proceeds,  explanatorily,  "  but  they  won't  stand  anybody 
else  in  the  field,  if  they  can  help  it." 

"  Oh !"  I  say,  again,  not  feeling  much  enlightened,  but  not 
wishing  to  betray  my  ignorance  by  asking  further  informa- 
tion. 

The  days  pass  quickly  by.  Now  there  is  only  a  week  left, 
for  we  arc  to  leave  town  on  the  Monday  following  the  Eton 
and  Harrow  match. 

It  is  a  lovely  day,  and  we  are  going  to  a  garden-party.  It 
is  to  be  a  very  grand  affair ;  royalty  is  expected,  and  I  look 
forward  to  it  with  some  pleasure.  Lord  Seldon,  who  is  lunch- 
ing with  us,  asks  Mrs.  Warrington  to  drive  him  down,  but, 

23* 


270  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

for  some  reason  best  known  to  herself,  slie  refuses  his  most 
urgent  entreaties. 

"  Never  mind,"  he  says,  laughing.  "  I  won't  be  got  rid  of 
in  that  way.  I'll  get  there  first,  and  hang  about  the  gate 
until  you  come." 

He  is  as  good  as  his  word.  The  very  first  person  we  see 
upon  entering  is  his  noble  self. 

"  Did  I  not  tell  you  so  ?"  he  whispers,  triumphantly,  a  few 
minutes  later,  as  he  joins  me  and  we  all  go  together  to  salute 
our  hosts. 

To  all  intents  and  purposes  he  might  have  gone  down  in 
the  carriage  with  us.  The  Duchess  of  Landermere  and  Lady 
Egidia  are  standing  among  the  group  around  the  hostess; 
both  dart  angry  glances  in  Lord  Seldon's  direction,  which  that 
self-willed  young  gentleman  chooses  to  ignore  utterly. 

"  Ah,  mother,  got  here  first,  I  see  !  How  do,  Lady  Egidia?" 
And  then  the  abominable  boy  turns  his  back  upon  them  and 
laughs,  and  whispers  to  me  in  the  most  pointed  manner.  I 
feel  rather  angry  with  him. 

"  Why  do  you  not  join  the  duchess  ?"  I  say,  in  a  low  voice. 
"  She  is  evidently  displeased,  and  Lady  Egidia  is  looking 
daggers." 

"Let  them:  who  cares?"  he  answers,  defiantly.  "I  am 
going  to  enjoy  myself.  Come  along;  I'll  show  you  all  over 
the  grounds.  They're  awfully  pretty, — well  worth  seeing.  Mrs. 
Warrington,  I  am  going  to  do  cicerone  to  Miss  Carew.  You 
know  what  a  good  hand  I  am  at  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  Do  not  be  away  long,"  says  Mrs.  Warrington,  smiling 
graciously,  for  by  this  time  we  have  moved  ofi"  from  the  duch- 
ess's group,  and  are  mixed  up  with  the  general  throng  of 
guests. 

"  I'm  in  tremendous  spirits  to-day,"  says  the  young  fellow, 
gayly.  "  Let's  get  out  of  the  way  of  all  these  people,  and  then 
we  can  enjoy  ourselves.     I've  got  a  new  hat  on,  and  the  brim 


DIANA'S  STORF.  271 

will  be  off  presently  if  I  have  to  take  it  off  mucli  more"  Cper- 
forming  as  he  speaks  repeated  salutations  right  and  left,  in 
answer  to  the  gracious  bows  that  are  being  bestowed  upon  him 
from  many  members  of  my  sex).  "  I  only  wish  to  good- 
ness they  would  invent  some  new  mode  of  greeting ;  for 
instance, — happy  thought ! — wave  your  hand  to  a  man  and 
kiss  it  to  a  woman.  By  Jove  !  I'll  get  some  one  to  start  the 
idea." 

We  are  getting  out  of  the  crowd  now, — out  of  the  sunshine, 
which  is  rather  oppressive,  into  a  shady  avenue  of  fine  old 
trees.  We  have  it  all  to  ourselves.  Here  and  there  com- 
fortable garden-chairs  are  placed  in  niches  at  long  intervals. 
My  companion  flings  himself  into  one,  takes  off  his  hat, 
stretches  his  arms,  and  gives  vent  to  a  sigh  of  intense  relief. 

"  This  is  bliss !"  he  ejaculates.  "  Now,"  turning  to  me 
with  dancing  eyes  and  the  most  radiant  expression  of  face, 
"  guess  why  I  have  brought  you  here  !"  And,  before  I  can 
utter  a  word,  he  seizes  both  my  hands,  and  cries,  "  I  love  you, 
and  I  have  brought  you  here,  however  ridiculous  it  may  be" 
(a  look  of  triumph  belying  his  words),  "  to  ask  you  to  be  my 
wife." 

To  say  I  am  astonished  would  be  to  give  very  poor  expres- 
sion to  the  bewilderment  that  overpowers  my  senses.  Hon- 
estly and  truthfully,  I  had  no  more  idea  of  such  a  climax  to 
our  merry  friendship  than — than — oh,  why  does  not  some  one 
invent  a  new  set  of  similes  ? 

"Well?"  he  says,  joyously,  looking  eagerly  in  my  face  as 
though  there  was  but  one  answer  possible  to  his  appeal,  and 
then  again  yet  more  eagerly  and  with  a  dash  of  impatience, 
"  Well  ?" 

I  feel  as  perplexed  as  I  might  do  if  my  pug-dog  were  to  be- 
come suddenly  unmanageable.  Then  I  say,  still  leaving  my 
hands  in  his,  and  looking  blankly  at  him, — 

"  My  dear  boy,  have  you  taken  leave  of  your  senses?" 


272  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  he  cries,  drawing  back  for  a  mo- 
ment in  angry  surprise.  "  Wliy  do  you  look  so  astonished  ? 
You  knew — you  must  have  known  for  days  past — what  was 
coming  ;  at  all  events,  every  one  else  did." 

We  are  still  staring  at  each  other,  both  acted  upon  by  the 
same  emotion  of  surprise ;  but  his  is  marked  by  angry  in- 
credulity, and  mine  is  nothing  but  the  pure,  simple,  un- 
adulterated feeling. 

"Di,"  he  says,  appealingly,  evidently  making  an  effort  over 
himself,  "  of  course  I  know  it's  the  correct  thing,  at  least  I've 
always  heard  so,  for  girls  to  pretend  to  be  surprised  an^  get 
up  a  little  bit  of  acting,  that  they  mayn't  seem  to  jump  at  a 
fellow  ;  but  I  should  have  thought  you  were  above  that  sort  of 
thing ;  and,  besides,  you  know  me  so  well"  (reproachfully), 
"  and  that  I  mean  all  I  say,  so  there  isn't  any  need  for  that 
sort  of  humbug  between  us." 

If  I  were  not  so  sorry,  I  should  feel  inclined  to  smile  at  the 
hoy's  unconscious  egotism ;  but  I  am  sorry,  and  vexed  with 
myself  too.  Is  it  possible  there  can  have  been  anything  in 
his  manner  I  ought  to  have  seen  or  guessed  at  if  I  had  not 
been  so  blindly  taken  up  with  my  own  unhappy,  miserable 
love  ? 

"  Come,"  I  say,  coaxingly,  laying  my  hand  on  his  arm,  and 
humoring  him,  as  one  might  a  child  one  was  persuading  to 
something  unpleasant  ;  "  let  us  talk  calmly  and  rationally." 

"  Calmly  and  rationally !"  he  says,  the  angry  tears  starting 
to  his  blue  eyes ;  "  calmly  and  rationally  !"  (with  indignant 
iteration),- — "  when  I've  been  thinking  and  dreaming  of  no- 
thing but  you  for  days  and  nights,  and  last  night  I  never  closed 
my  eyes  for  thinking  how  happy  I  was  going  to  be  to-day. 
But"  (with  a  .sudden  change  of  manner,  bringing  his  fair 
young  face  close  to  mine,  and  speaking  in  a  pleading  voice) 
"  you  are  not  in  earnest,  really,  darling?  You  do  care  a  little 
bit  about  me.     If  it's  only  because  you  think  I'm  too  young,  I 


DIANA'S  STORY.  273 

shall  soon  mend  of  tliat.    After  all,  I  am  two  years  older  thaa 

you." 

All  the  time  that  he  is  pouring  out  his  impetuous  words,  1 
am  looking  regretfully  at  his  bright,  young,  impassioned  face, 
and  wondering  what  I  can  say  to  make  him  see  reason. 

"  Lord  Seldon,"  I  begin. 

"Don't  call  me  that!"  he  exclaims,  impatiently:  "call  me 
Hubert,  or,  better  still,  Bertie." 

"  Very  well,  Bertie,"  I  say.  At  which  he  seizes  my  hand 
and  kisses  it.  "  No,"  I  cry,  drawing  it  away,  "  you  must  not 
do  that.     Sit  farther  away,  or  I  cannot  talk  to  you." 

He  starts  up  in  a  rage. 

"  Oh,  of  course,  if  I  disgust  you,"  he  begins,  furiously, 
"  there's  an  end  of  everything." 

I  feel  petrified  by  the  airs  of  manhood  he  is  giving  himself. 
I  really  do  not  know  how  to  treat  him.  Suddenly  it  occurs  to 
me  to  meet  him  on  his  own  ground.     Rising,  I  say, — 

"  Perhaps  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  take  me  back  to  Mrs. 
Warrington." 

"  Certainly,"  he  answers,  with  bitter  politeness. 

We  walk  silently  side  by  side  a  few  yards,  then  he  turns  oif 
to  the  left  along  a  smaller  avenue,  and,  turning  once  again,  we 
find  ourselves  in  an  open  space,  laid  with  velvety  turf,  in  the 
centre  of  which  a  fountain  plays  into  a  marble  basin. 

"  This  is  not  the  way  back,"  I  say. 

"  No,"  he  answers.  "  Sit  down  here  with  me  a  moment." 
And,  as  I  sit  on  the  edge  of  the  wide  basin,  he  throws  him- 
self down  on  the  sward. 

"  Now,"  he  says,  looking  up  at  me,  "  it  is  your  turn.  You 
haven't  really  said  anything ;  it  has  only  been  your  face  that 
has  spoken  ;  but,  anyhow,  that  was  plain  enough." 

And  he  tilts  the  brim  of  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  that  he  may 
look  up  into  my  face. 

"  Doa't  you  know,"  I  cry,  regretfully,  "  how  much  I  like 


274  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

you,  and  that  I  would  not  willingly  give  you  pain"  (hesitat- 
ing), "  any  more  than  I  would  Curly  ?" 

"Curly!"  (impatiently) — "a  boy  of  sixteen!  Any  one 
would  imagine  you  were  an  old  woman.  Why  will  you  per- 
sist in  thinking  of  me  only  as  a  boy  ?" 

"  It's  not  that,"  I  say,  hastily.  "  I  have  thought  of  you  in 
that  way ;  but,  even  if  I  were  ten  years  older,  I  could  not 
look  upon  you  as  anything  but  a  friend.  Let  me  be  your 
friend." 

As  I  utter  the  word,  my  thoughts  fly  back  to  that  night  at 
Alford,  when  Hector  Montagu  and  I  sat  together  under  the 
bent  boughs  of  the  old  tree  beside  the  glittering  water.  I  can 
see  the  angry  scorn  flashing  from  his  eyes  as  I  profier  him  all 
I  have  to  give, — my  friendship. 

Such  scorn,  though  diflering  in  intensity  as  the  man's  dark 
face  difi"ers  from  the  boy's  fair  young  one,  comes  into  Lord 
Seldon's  eyes. 

"  Friend  !"  he  says.  "  Thanks  ;  I  have  plenty  of  friends. 
I  don't  want  your  friendship ;  I  ask  for  your  love.  And  if 
you  won't  give  me  that,  I  have  at  all  events  a  right  to  know" 
(passionately)  "  why,  after  seeming  to  care  for  me,  you  throw 
me  over." 

"  "Won't  you  believe  me,"  I  cry,  eagerly,  "  when  I  tell  you 
that  I  no  more  dreamed  of  your  being — well,  in  love  with  me, 
than"  (in  my  usual  strait  for  a  simile) — "  than  the  Prince  of 
Wales?" 

"  How  was  it,  then,  that  every  one  else  saw  it?"  (incredu- 
lously). "  Mrs.  Warrington  saw  it,  Lady  Egidia  saw  it  plain 
enough,  my  mother  saw  it.  I  have  heard  of  nothing  else  this 
week  past." 

I  see  a  loophole  of  escape  in  his  last  words. 

"  It  is  very  evident,"  I  say,  "  if  the  duchess  saw  it  that  she 
did  not  approve  of  it.  I  could  not  help  remarking  even  this 
afternoon  how  vexed  she  looked  to  see  you  with  mc,  and  you 


DIANA'S  STORY.  275 

can  hardly  say  she  looked  pleased  when  you  introduced  me  to 
her  that  night.  However  much  I  might  like  a  man,"  I  add, 
with  dignity,  "it  is  very  unlikely  I  should  accept  him  if  his 
fkmily  disapproved  of  me." 

"Is  that  all?"  he  cries,  eagerly,  jumping  up  and  coming 
to  sit  beside  me  on  the  edge  of  the  fountain.  "  My  darling, 
don't  let  a  thought  of  that  enter  your  brain.  My  mother  is 
a  little  bit  crusty  just  now  because  she  has  set  her  heart  on 
my  marrying  Lady  Egidia  ;  but  she  worships  me  ;  if  she  knew 
that  I  couldn't  live  without  you, — and  I  couldn't;  I  should 
blow  my  brains  out, — she  would  come  to  you  on  her  knees 
and  ask  you  to  marry  me.  Besides,  if  it  comes  to  that,  your 
family's  an  older  one  than  ours." 

"  That  may  be,"  I  answer,  promptly,  "  but  our  position  now 
is  not  equal  to  yours,  and,  if  you  married  me,  people  would 
think  you  had  thrown  yourself  away." 

"  Let  them  think,  and  be  haoged  to  them.  Who  cares  ?" 
he  cries,  impetuously. 

I  give  vent  to  a  sigh.  After  all,  I  am  not  a  whit  nearer  a 
satisfactory  ending  than  when  I  began. 

"  What  am  I  to  say  to  you  ?"  I  cry,  in  despair.  "  I  can- 
not marry  you,  because  I  do  not  love  you." 

He  throws  himself  on  his  knees  before  me,  regardless  of 
the  havoc  that  the  green  moss  may  make  with  his  light  trou- 
sers, and,  whether  I  will  or  no,  puts  both  his  arms  round  me 
and  looks  up  into  my  face. 

"  But,  darling,"  he  cries,  passionately,  "  you  would  in  time. 
If  you  like  me  as  you  say  you  do  now,  surely  I'm  not  such  a 
beast  that  you  couldn't  get  to  love  me.  Don't  break  my 
heart ;  for  God's  sake  do  try  and  care  for  me  ;  there's  nothing 
in  this  world  I  won't  do  if  you  will  only  give  me  some  hope  !" 

He  buries  his  face  in  my  lap,  and  a  horrible  suspicion  comes 
across  me  that  he  is  crying.  The  fountain  sends  up  its  spark- 
ling stream  into  the  sunshine,  faintly  from  afar  the  notes  of 


276  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

the  "  Blue  Danube"  are  wafted  towards  us,  but  nor  sunshine 
nor  music  can  lighten  the  load  that  weighs  upon  my  heart.  I 
look  down  at  the  fair-haired  head  and  the  broad  young  shoul- 
ders, and  a  sorrowful  thought  co*nes  across  me  that  some  day 
Curly  may  be  pleading  to  some  woman  in  vain.  What  can  I 
say  to  him  ?  A  sudden  inspiration  comes  to  me,  and  I  act 
upon  it  as  suddenly,  without  a  moment's  reflection  as  to 
whether  I  may  not  regret  it  later. 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 


DIANA  S   STORY. 


It  is  a  curious  position,  that  in  which  I  find  myself  this 
July  afternoon,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  a  fountain,  with  a 
future  duke  in  tears  at  my  feet,  not  two  hundred  yards  away 
from  a  gay  and  select  crowd,  any  member  or  members  of 
whom  may  at  any  moment  come  suddenly  upon  us  without 
warning.  And  I,  who  have  all  along  hugged  my  bitter  secret 
to  my  heart  of  hearts,  am  about  to  confide  it  to  this  boy,  who 
only  one  short  half-hour  ago  would  have  seemed  to  me  the 
most  impossible  recipient  for  such  a  confidence. 

The  little  white  cloudlets  are  sailing  aloft  in  the  blue 
heaven,  a  tiny  breeze  stirs  the  topmost  leaves  of  the  big 
trees,  the  fountain  sparkles  in  the  sun  and  comes  plashing 
musically  down  again  into  the  broad  basin,  and  I,  plucking  up 
heart,  force  out  the  words  that  are  to  console  my  boy  lover 
and  make  him  see  reason. 

"I  want  you  to  believe,"  I  say,  laying  my  hand  on  his 
ai-m,  while  the  tears  spring  into  my  eyes,  "  that  I  would  not 


DIANA'S  STORY.  Ill 

for  the  world  give  you  pain  willingly.  I  know  myself  (and 
my  voice  falters)  "  how  bitter  it  is  to  love  in  vain." 

"  What !"  he  cries,  looking  up  into  my  face ;  "  do  you 
mean  that  you  love  some  one  else  ?" 

It  is  hard,  bitterly  hard,  to  say  it,  but  his  eager  eyes  compel 
the  words  out  of  me. 

"  Yes,"  I  answer. 

"  Well,"  he  cries,  starting  up  wrathfully,  "  you  have  kept 
it  dark  very  carefully,  I  must  say.  Pray"  (trying  to  be  sar- 
castic, but  failing  utterly), ''  may  I  be  privileged  to  know  who 
is  my  rival?" 

"  You  need  not  know,"  I  answer,  slowly,  "  since  there  is  no 
more  chance  of  my  marrying  him  than  of  my  marrying  you." 

"Is  he  married,  then?" 

"  Married  !"  I  repeat,  shocked  ;  "  of  course  not !  How 
could  one  care  for  a  married  man?" 

"  I  have  heard  of  such  things,"  he  remarks,  bitterly. 
"  Well,  then,  if  he  is  not  married,  what  obstacle  can  there 
be  to  his  marrying  you  ?" 

I  avert  my  face,  to  hide,  if  may  be,  the  sudden  traitorous 
color  that  dyes  my  cheeks. 

"  He  does  not  want  to." 

There  is  a  pause,  during  which  I  watch  the  movements  of 
a  stray  gold-fish  in  the  water  whilst  my  face  recovers  its 
normal  tint. 

^^  He  does  not  want  toT^  echoes  Lord  Seldon,  at  last. 
"  Then,  in  heaven's  name"  (coming  round  and  seating  him- 
self beside  me),  "  are  you  going  to  give  up  everything  in  life 
for  a  man  who  does  not  care  for  you  ?  Why,  you  can't  go 
on  caring  about  him  forever ;  nobody  does :  people  are  bound 
to  get  over  that  sort  of  thing  in  time"  (unconsciously  arguing 
against  his  own  cause).  "  Well"  (eagerly),  "  if  you  have  no 
heart,  have  you  no  ambition  ?  Don't  you  care  to  be  a 
duchess  ?     I  know,"  he  says,  his  bright  face  flushing,  •"  it 

24 


278  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

sounds  very  snobbish  to  remind  you  of  that,  but  surely  it 
must  go  for  something." 

"What!"  I  say,  looking  at  him,  "would  you  be  content 
that  I  should  take  you  without  loving  you,  just  because  some 
day  you  may  be  a  duke?" 

"Lots  of  women  would,"  he  answers,  glumly.  "No,  of 
course  I  should  not  be  content;  but,  oh,  darling"  (looking 
up  at  me  with  honest  love  in  his  blue  eyes),  "  I  would  rather 
you  took  me  for  that  than  not  at  all.  Give  me  a  month,  two 
months,  let  me  try  to  make  you  love  me,  and  then,  if  I  fail, 
I  swear  to  you  upon  my  honor,  I  will  take  all  the  blame  to 
myself  if  you  find  you  can't  like  me." 

"  It  is  no  use,"  I  cry,  feeling  the  ground  slipping  away 
from  under  me.  "  Do  not  pain  me  by  saying  any  more  :  be 
generous,  and  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that  it  is  utterly, 
utterly  impossible." 

He  looks  at  me  with  eyes  in  which  anger  and  incredulity 
are  equally  blended. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  positively,"  he  asks,  forcing  the 
words  out  slowly,  "  that  you  refuse  me  ? — refuse  me  for  good 
and  all?" 

"  Do  not  put  it  in  that  way,"  I  say,  rising  to  go.  "  Forget 
that  you  ever  asked  me,  and  believe  tlvat  I  would  not  for  the 
world  have  given  you  pain  willingly.  Come"  (laying  my 
hand  on  his  arm),  "  let  us  go  back  to  Mrs.  Warrington." 

For  the  first  time  he  thinks  of  his  appearance.  He  looks 
down  at  the  faint  green  stains  on  his  clothes,  and  passes  his 
hand  over  his  hair. 

"I  can't  go  back  among  those  people,"  he  says,  with  hurt 
boyish  vanity :  "  it  is  not  pleasant  to  look  as  well  as  to  feel 
that  you've  made  a  fool  of  yourself" 

I  look  rather  ruefully  at  my  own  pale  gown  of  hleu,  Wat' 
teau  del,  as  the  confectioner  thereof  fancifully  called  it,  and 
see  on  it  the  poor  boy's  tear-stains. 


DIANA'S  STORY.  279 

"  How  am  I  to  get  back?"  I  say,  doubtfully,  but  not  wish- 
ing to  put  him  to  any  pain  that  I  can  spare  him.  "  I  can 
hardly  go  alone." 

"  Come,  then,"  he  utters,  brusquely,  turning  to  go. 

I  feel  sorry  for  him  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart.  He  has 
never  been  used  to  contradiction,  and  takes  it  very  badly.  I 
want  to  make  fi'iends  with  him.  I  long  to  restore  to  him  his 
shattered  self-conceit,  but^m  afraid  of  adding  fuel  to  the  fire 
by  anything  I  may  say  :  so  we  hurry  along  in  profound  silence. 
As  we  emerge  from  the  avenue  I  encounter  an  old  friend. 

"  There  is  Colonel  Fane  !"  I  exclaim  :  "  he  will  take  me  to 
Mrs.  Warrington  ;"  and  as  he  comes  towards  me  Lord  Seldon 
abruptly  raises  his  hat  and  leaves  me. 

"  How  wild  that  boy  looks !"  utters  Fane,  looking  fixedly 
at  me.     "  What  have  you  been  doing  to  him  ?" 

"  I  ? — nothing  !"  I  answer,  trying  vainly  to  look  unconscious. 
"  Have  you  seen  Mrs.  Warrington  ?  She  will  think  I  am 
lost." 

"  My  dear  Diana,"  says  that  lady,  with  slight  reproach  in 
her  voice,  as  I  join  her,  "  where  have  you  been  all  this  immense 
time?" 

A  little  later  we  are  on  our  way  to  the  gate.  Mrs.  War- 
rington stops  to  speak  to  some  friends,  and  I  stand  listlessly 
aside  until  she  shall  have  finished.  There  are  two  elegantly- 
dressed  women  standing  with  their  backs  to  me,  and,  to  my 
surprise,  I  hear  my  name  mentioned, 

"  What  can  she  have  done  to  Lord  Seldon  ?"  says  one. 

"  I  saw  him  go  off  half  an  hour  ago  looking  as  wild  as  a 
March  hare,  and  not  long  before  that  they  went  up  the  avenue 
together.     She  can't  have  refused  him  !" 

"  My  dear,"  retorts  the  other,  contemptuously,  "  did  the 
beggar  maid  refuse  King  Cophetua  ?" 

Happily,  Mrs.  Warrington  is  moving  on.  As  we  drive 
homewards   I  feel  very  little  inclination  to  talk,  nor,  appa- 


280  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

rently,  does  my  companion.     But  suddenly,  wlien  I  am  envel- 
oped in  a  train  of  thought,  she  turns  to  me,  and  says, — 

"  Diana,  what  became  of  Lord  Seldou  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  I  stammer.    "  I  think  he  went  away " 

"  Was  he  ill  ?" 

"  I  do  not  think  so.     He  did  not  say  so." 

There  is  a  moment's  pause.  Then  she  says,  looking  intently 
at  me, —  « 

"  It  is  not  possible  that  he  has  proposed  to  you  and  that 
you  have  refused  him  !  It  is  not  possible  !"  she  reiterates,  as 
I  turn  my  head  away  to  conceal  my  embarrassment.  Still  I 
am  silent.     I  will  not  tell  the  truth,  but  I  cannot  deny  it. 

"  Diana  !"  whispers  my  usually  placid  friend,  with  vindic- 
tive energy,  "  I  should  like  to  shake  you  !" 

For  the  rest  of  our  drive  the  silence  remains  unbroken. 
But  later  on  there  is  much  conflict  of  words  between  us.  She 
insists  upon  hearing  the  whole  story,  and,  under  the  strictest 
promise  of  secrecy,  I  repeat  it  to  her,  with  one  exception  :  I 
do  not  tell  her  the  reason  I  gave  for  refusing  him  ;  I  content 
myself  with  saying  that  I  feel  it  impossible  to  care  sufficiently 
for  him.  She  treats  this  reason  with  hottest  scorn  and  con- 
tempt. Not  like  a  bright  handsome  young  fellow  like  that, 
the  heir  to  a  dukedom  and  any  number  of  thousands  a  year ! 
Preposterous  !  If  he  were  ugly,  ill-tempered,  sickly,  deformed, 
extraordinarily  vicious,  one  could  understand  it ;  but  a  young 
fellow  with  every  gift  the  world  values,  and  devoted  to  me 
into  the  bargain,  as  every  one  could  see, — it  was  sheer  suicidal 
folly. 

"  Why  did  you  not  tell  me,"  I  say,  reproachfully,  "  if  you 
really  saw  that  he  cared  for  me?" 

"  Because,"  Mrs.  Warrington  returns,  with  exasperation 
"  such  is  the  delightful  perversity  of  girls,  that  if  they  think  a 
man  likes  them,  or  that  their  friends  want  them  to  marry  him, 
they  immediately  set  their  faces  dead  against  it  and  say  they 


DIANA'S  STORY.  281 

can't  love  him.  Love  !"  (wrathfuUy)  :  "  I  am  sick  of  the  very 
name  of  love  !  And  what  do  girls  know  about  it,  pray,  if  they 
are  modest  and  properly  brought  up  ?  I  am  more  convinced 
every  day  of  my  life  that  the  French  system  is  the  proper  one, 
— don't  allow  girls  to  have  a  voice  in  the  matter.  Love- 
matches  indeed  !  A  pretty  end  they  generally  come  to  !  It 
is  almost  always  the  case  that,  if  you  meet  with  a  married 
couple  who  dislike  each  other  and  quarrel  more  than  usual,  it 
was  a  ?ove-match." 

I  do  not  believe  for  a  moment  that  these  are  my  dear  Mrs. 
Warrington's  real  sentiments  ;  only,  for  some  cause  or  other, 
she  seems  to  have  set  her  heart  upon  my  marrying  Lord  Sel- 
don.  Indeed,  it  is  a  far  harder  task  to  encounter  all  her  argu- 
ments, her  entreaties,  her  reasons,  her  insistance,  than  it  was 
to  repel  his.  Finally  she  leaves  me  in  anger.  What  can  I 
do  ?  I  would  not  for  the  world  displease  her  willingly  ;  and 
yet  the  other  alternative  is  simply  impossible.  I  shut  myself 
up  in  my  room :  we  were  engaged  to  a  ball  that  evening,  but 
I  had  no  heart  to  go,  and  my  hostess  excused  me.  Then,  as  I 
lay  on  my  couch,  chewing  the  cud  of  fancies  that  were,  alas  I 
all  bitter,  a  letter  was  brought  to  me.  I  knew  the  scrawling 
hand,  more  scrawling  than  ever  to-night:  the  inside  was  blurred 
and  blotted,  but  you  may  depend  I  looked  upon  it  in  no  unkind 
spirit  of  criticism. 

"  Dearest"  (he  wrote), — "  I  know  I  behaved  like  a  hrute 
this  afternoon.  I  lost  my  temper,  and  it  was  very  presump- 
tuous of  me  to  be  so  sure  of  you ;  but  somehow  I  suppose  I 
have  been  brought  up  to  think  I  had  only  to  ask  and  have, 
and  I  dare  say  it  will  do  me  good  to  have  a  little  of  the  con- 
ceit knocked  out  of  me.  Only,  darling,  don't,  for  God's  sake, 
make  up  your  mind  against  me ;  don't  settle  anything  in  a 
hurry.  Perhaps  after  a  time  you  will  see  that  it's  no  good 
thinking  about  that  other  fellow  (oh,  how  I  wish  I  could 

2-1* 


282  FOR  A    WOyTAN'S  SAKE. 

shoot  liim  ! — what  a  dunder-hcudcd  ass  he  must  be  !),  or  he 
may  get  married,  and  you  know  it's  simply  ridiculous  to  think 
that  any  one  so  lovely  as  you  could  ever  be  allowed  to  be  an  old 
maid.  I  can't  think  why  you  will  persist  in  thinking  me  such  a 
boy  ;  lots  of  women  much  older  than  you  don't,  and,  you  knovV, 
a]iart  from  my  being  a  long  way  past  of  age,  I've  seen  a  great 
deal  of  life,  and  knocking  about  as  I've  done  puts  years  on  to 
a  fellow.  But  I  can't  believe  seriously  that  my  being  young 
is  really  an  objection  in  your  eyes.  You  surely  don't  want  a 
follow  old  enough  to  be  your  father ;  though  I  have  heard  of 
girls  taking  odd  fxncies.  I'll  wait  a  year,  darling,  if  you  like, — 
two  years,  if  it  would  make  you  care  for  me  any  more.  I  could 
live  on  hope.  All  I  ask  you  is,  just  to  let  me  hope.  If  you 
don't,  I  don't  know  what  will  become  of  me  ;  the  very  thought, 
as  I  write  this,  drives  me  nearly  mad.  I've  fancied  myself  in 
love  before,  but  I  swear  to  you  I  never  cared  for  anybody  a 
fiftieth  part  as  I  do  for  you,  and  if  you've  heard  stories  about 
me  don't  believe  them,  because  there  are  always  lots  of  people 
to  tell  lies  about  a  fellow.  Then  you  know  how  fond  I  am  of 
Curly :  I  look  upon  him  quite  like  a  brother  already,  and  there 
isn't  anything  I  won't  do  for  him  if  you'll  only  give  me  the 
chance.  Oh,  Di,  my  darling,  don't  spurn  my  heart's  devotion 
and  send  me  to  the  devil,  for  to  the  devil  I  shall  go  if  you  won't 
have  me.  Think  it  over :  you  may  tell  Mrs.  Warrington,  if  you 
like ;  I  know  she'll  stand  my  friend,  and  I  have  no  pride  now, 
for  if  you  don't  have  me  there  is  nothing  more  for  me  in  this 
life,  and  I  don't  care  who  knows  it.  Montagu  has  been  dining 
with  me ;  he  saw  there  was  something  up,  and  I  felt  so  bad  I 
could  not  help  telling  somebody  ;  and  he  has  cheered  me  up  a 
bit.  Good-night,  my  dearest  love.  I  feel  I  could  go  on 
writing  to  you  all  night,  only  if  I  wrote  forever  I  couldn't 
say  more  than  that  I  love  you  with  all  my  soul,  and  that  I 
shall  always  be  your  most  devoted  slave  and  worshiper. 

"  Seldon." 


DIANA'S  STORY.  283 

I  read  on  until  I  come  nearly  to  the  end,  full  of  kind 
thoughts  and  regret  for  the  young  fellow  whose  honest  love 
shines  through  every  line,  but  when  I  reach  the  passage  about 
Captain  Montagu  a  flood  of  anger  rushes  to  my  heart,  the  in- 
dignant tears  to  my  eyes.  Great  heavens  !  was  it  not  enough 
before  ! — and  now  he  can  coolly  listen  to  Lord  Seldon's  confi- 
dences, and  "  cheer  him  up."  Cheer  him  up  ! — that,  I  sup- 
pose, bitterly,  was  by  holding  out  hopes.  I  fling  the  letter 
from  me,  and,  springing  up,  race  to  and  fro  in  my  room,  in 
such  a  storm  of  passionate  anger  as  I  never  yet  felt,  never  till 
this  moment  imagined  I  could  feel.  Presently  my  rage  sub- 
sides into  grief,  and  I  fling  myself  on  my  knees  and  sob  my 
very  heart  out.  No  matter  that  it  is  unreasonable,  no  matter 
that  I  have  long  ago  renounced  all  hope  of  being  anything 
to  him,  no  matter  that  I  revile  him  to  myself  and  call  him 
heartless,  unfair,  dishonorable :  the  sting  of  this  new  cruelty 
is  none  the  less  sharp.  An  impotent  desire  for  revenge  takes 
possession  of  me  in  this  first  burst  of  outraged  love  and  pride. 
I  think — yes,  I  think  if  it  would  give  him  pain  I  could  marry 
Lord  Seldon  to-morrow.  But  it  would  not :  that  is  the  sting 
of  it.  He  would  doubtless  come  to  the  wedding,  and  make 
the  most  charming,  graceful  speech  on  the  occasion,  and  I 
should  have  spoiled  my  life  for  nothing.  Spoiled  my  life  !  I, 
Diana  Carew,  who  have  no  prospect  of  anything  but  humility 
and  poverty,  spoil  my  life  by  marrying  a  man  able  to  give  me 
every  pleasure  and  luxury  the  world  holds  !  Ay,  the  world  ! 
But  then  I  have  never  looked  there  for  happiness.  I  am  not 
ambitious.  The  first  grief  that  ever  came  into  my  simple 
Paradise  came  with  my  first  glimpse  of  the  world,  the  first 
taste  of  the  fruit  of  the  tree  of  the  knowledge  of  (worldly) 
good  and  evil.  The  thought  of  an  atmosphere  of  fashion,  of 
fine  company,  fine  houses,  fine  clothes,  fine  jewels,  does  not 
warm  my  heart :  it  only  seems  to  make  more  barren  and  void 
a  future  which  I  should  pass  in  the  perpetual  society  of  a  man 


284  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

I  could  not  love.  I  found  him  pleasant  enough  as  a  friend, 
but  when  I  force  myself  to  regard  him  in  the  light  of  the  one 
being  to  whom  I  am  to  look  in  the  future  for  love,  sympathy, 
comfort,  my  whole  soul  revolts.  To  marry  a  man,  too, 
against  the  wish  of  his  family  ! — to  be  looked  down  upon  by 
them  ! — in  time,  perhaps  (what  more  likely  ending  to  a  boyish 
fiincy  !)  to  be  treated  with  coldness  and  neglect  by  him  !  No : 
the  prospect  of  being  Lady  Seldon  might  seem  fair  enough  to 
a  girl  who  had  been  educated  in  the  world's  creeds,  who  had 
been  faithfully  taught  the  worship  of  mammon,  but  not  to  a 
simple  country-girl,  who  values  not  pomp  or  grandeur  one 
rush  when  they  are  divorced  from  love  and  truth  and  faith. 
To  marry  a  man  simply  because  he  has  a  title  or  money  seems 
in  my  eyes  the  basest  degradation.  How  is  it  different  from 
standing  up  in  an  Eastern  market  and  being  knocked  down 
to  the  highest  bidder  ?  But  then  I  am  not  a  well-trained, 
well-tutored  young  lady :  I  am  only  a  little  girl  who  has  grown 
up  wild  in  the  country  and  been  allowed  the  run  of  a  library 
of  old-fashioned  romances. 


CHAPTER    XXX. 


DIANA  S   STORY. 


Once  more  I  am  at  home  again,  with  papa  and  Gay,  with 
my  dogs  and  cats,  leading  the  quiet  peaceful  life  of  yore.  I 
have  told  the  stories  of  my  doings  and  seeings  over  and  over 
again,  especially  the  history  of  the  cricket-match  in  which 
Eton  came  off  victorious, — of  our  doubts  and  fears  and  ulti- 
mate triumph,  of  Curly's  intense  excitement,  of  the  words 


DIANA'S  STORF.  285 

that  he  said,  the  looks  that  he  looked.  For  were  they  not  all 
chronicled  in  my  heart,  to  be  the  subjects  of  many  loving 
talks  with  papa  and  Gay  at  home  ? 

I  fondly  hoped  papa  would  not  hear  of  the  little  episode 
about  Lord  Seldon ;  indeed,  I  made  Mrs.  Warrington  promise 
faithfully  not  to  betray  me ;  but  he  did  hear  it,  and  from 
Curly,  of  all  people  in  the  world.  It  appeared  Lord  Seldon 
met  him  on  the  river,  and  they  had  a  long  talk,  in  which  it 
came  out,  and  Curly  was  in  a  state  of  hot  indignation  about  it. 

"  Such  an  awful  shame,"  he  wrote,  "  and  he  is  so  awfalhj 
cut  up,  and  swears  he  will  never  marry  anybody  else ;  and  he 
always  from  the  first  felt  like  a  brother  to  me,  and  I'm  sure  so 
I  do  to  him,  and  he's  promised,  if  it  ever  does  come  off,  to  do 
I  don't  know  what  for  me,  though  of  course  it  isn't  for  that  I 
want  it ;  but  he's  such  a  stunning  good  fellow,  and  so  devotedly 
fond  of  Di.  And  I  didn't  think  Di  could  be  so  heartless ; 
and  he  will  be  Duke  of  Laudermere,  and  his  father  is  a  great 
invalid,  and  can't  last  very  long;  though  of  course  he  didn't 
tell  me  that.  And,  dad,  I  do  hope  you  will  persuade  her,  and 
make  her  see  reason.  Only  think  of  her  being  a  duchess, 
which  she  would  in  time,  and  he's  an  ea7-l  now." 

Thus  writes  Curly,  in  hot  and  incoherent  haste ;  and  papa, 
who  usually  reads  every  line  aloud  to  me,  having  come  to  a 
full  stop,  goes  on  to  himself. 

"  Well  ?"  I  say,  looking  up  at  the  sudden  pause  ;  but  papa 
is  reading  on  with  a  vexed  expression  of  face.  A  sudden 
horror  seizes  me  that  our  boy  has  been  getting  into  debt,  or 
some  kind  of  trouble,  and  I  cry,  in  an  impatient,  frightened 
voice,  "  What  is  the  matter  ?     Is  anything  wrong  ?" 

Then  my  father,  with  a  sigh  that  has  an  impatient  sound, 
hands  me  the  letter,  and  I  peruse,  with  what  feelings  may  be 
better  imagined  than  described,  the  portion  I  have  just  tran- 
scribed. I  read  it  through  to  the  end,  and  lay  it  down  by  my 
plate  without  daring  to  look  up. 


286  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"Is  it  true?"  asks  papa,  presently. 

"  Yes,"  I  say,  paying  particular  attention  to  the  toast  I  am 
buttering  witli  great  elaboration,  although  I  have  not  the 
remotest  intention  of  eating  it ;  the  letter  has  taken  away  my 
appetite,  and  left  nothing  but  a  choking  sensation  in  my 
throat. 

Then  silence  flills  upon  us.  It  will  not  last  very  long,  I 
know :  papa  is  fidgeting  about  and  clearing  his  throat,  with  a 
little  nervous  trick  that  he  has  when  he  is  preparing  to  say 
something  important  or  not  quite  pleasant. 

"  Di,"  he  breaks  out,  at  last,  "  what  makes  you  act  in  such 
an  extraordinary  way?  You  have  no  earthly  prospect  but 
poverty  before  you,  and  yet  you  throw  away  two  such  wonder- 
ful, such  unlooked-for  chances  of  a  brilliant  future." 

I  try  to  laugh  the  matter  off,  but  my  laugh,  even  in  my 
own  ears,  sounds  most  unmirthful. 

"  You  know,  papa,"  I  say,  "  if  I  had  taken  the  first  chance, 
as  you  call  it,  I  should  never  have  had  the  second,  which  is 
much  greater;  and  who  knows"  (flippantly)  "but  the  third 
may  be  greater  still  ?  I  may  end  by  being  a  princess ;  and 
then  what  a  pity  it  would  have  been  if  I  had  taken  the  duke." 

Papa  does  not  laugh ;  he  looks  very  grave,  even  to  stern- 
ness. 

"  Upon  my  soul,  I  do  not  understand  you,  Diana,"  he  says. 

At  his  tone,  at  the  sound  of  my  own  name  full  length, 
which  I  have  never  before  heard  from  his  lips,  my  forced  mirth 
is  put  to  a  most  sudden  and  disorderly  rout,  and  I  fall  to 
weeping  bitterly. 

"  Di,"  cries  my  father,  distressed,  "  my  dear  child,  do  not 
cry  !  I  do  not  wish  to  be  unkind,  only  your  conduct  puzzles 
me  so  utterly.  You  seem  to  me  to  be  acting  like  a  capricious 
child.  Well,  well,"  as  my  sobs  increase,  "  perhaps  you  can 
make  me  see  things  in  a  different  light.  Come,  Di,"  drawing 
near,  and  putting  his  hand  fondly  on  my  head,  "  tell  me  what 


DIANA'S  STORF.  287 

makes  you  unhappy.  Am  I  not  your  father  ?  Have  I  any 
care  or  interest  in  the  world  that  does  not  centre  in  you  and 
Curly?" 

It  is  easy  for  him  to  invite  my  confidence, — Heaven  knows 
there  is  no  other  subject  in  the  world  on  which  I  would  with- 
hold it, — but  to  confess  to  one's  father  one's  miserable,  foolish, 
ignominious,  hopeless  love  for  a  man  who  is  indifferent  to  it, 
what  woman  that  was  ever  created  could  bring  herself  to  so 
shameful  an  utterance? 

When  I  have  mastered  my  sobs,  I  walk  to  the  window  and 
look  out.  Papa  has  resumed  his  seat,  and  is  waiting  patiently 
until  the  spirit  shall  move  me  to  speak.  I  stand  for  some 
time  looking  out  at  the  great  clusters  of  roses,  crimson  and 
pink,  red  and  amber,  golden  yellow,  creamy  white,  blush- 
tinted.  There  is  a  lovely  bud  within  my  reach,  and  I  turn 
to  the  table  for  a  knife  and  proceed  to  sever  it  from  its  native 
bush.     By  this  time  I  have  recovered  myself. 

"  There  is  nothing  much  to  be  said,  papa,"  I  say,  i-n  a  small 
voice,  leaning  my  head  against  the  window-frame  and  contem- 
plating the  ceiling,  which  I  observe  is  becoming  exceedingly 
dingy.  "  I  don't  see  that  it  follows  one  is  bound  to  marry  a 
man  simply  because  he  asks  one." 

That,  I  comfort  myself,  is  convincingly  put.  Probably  papa 
thinks  so  too,  for  he  does  not  reply  immediately. 

"  No,"  he  answers,  presently,  "  if  a  man  asks  a  woman  to 
marry  him,  she  is  certainly  not  bound  to  accept  him  for  that 
simple  reason.  But  if  there  is  nothing  objectionable  about 
him,  if  indeed  she  has  rather  seemed  to  take  pleasure  in  his 
society,  if  he  can  offer  her  everything  that  the  world  esteems 
worth  having,  I  think  she  ought  to  reflect  long  and  gravely 
before  she  makes  up  her  mind  to  reject  him,  especially  where, 
as  in  your  case,  she  has  only  the  most  prospectless  future  to 
look  forward  to." 

"  I  suppose,"  I  say,  slowly,  looking  from  the  ceiling  to  tlie 


288  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

shabby  chairs,  from  the  shabby  chairs  to  the  shabbier  carpet, 
and  round  again  to  the  shabbiest  curtains,  "  that  the  object 
of  fine  clothes  and  houses,  diamonds  and  horses,  is  to  make 
their  possessor  happy,  is  it  not?" 

"  If  riches  do  not  make  happiness,  they  undoubtedly  add  a 
great  deal  to  one's  pleasure  in  life,"  remarks  my  father,  tritely. 

"  This  room  is  very  dingy  and  shabby,"  I  continue,  with 
apparent  irrelevancy  ;  "  and  we  have  never  had  much  luxury, 
have  we? — at  least  I  have  not,"  I  resume. 

"  No,  God  knows !"  murmurs  papa,  a  pained  look  coming 
into  his  dear  kind  face. 

"  Then,"  I  proceed,  resuming  my  contemplation  of  the  ceil- 
ing, with  my  head  thrown  well  back,  for  I  do  not  want  to  look 
him  in  the  face,  "I  have  been  brought  up  without  any  of 
these  wonderful  adjuncts,  and  I  do  not  believe — indeed,  I  am 
quite  sure"  (emphatically)  "  that  there  was  never  in  this 
world  a  happier  girl  than  I  was." 

"  Than  you  xoere^  says  papa,  taking  up  my  words  quickly  : 
"  I  think  that  is  true.  But,  Di,  can  you  say  truthfully  that 
from  the  moment  you  came  iu  contact  with  the  luxuries  and 
pleasures  of  the  world  you  have  been  as  happy  ?  It  is  true 
you  have  never  complained,  because  you  are  unselfish,  Grod 
bless  you,  and  would  not  pain  me ;  but  do  you  think  I  have 
not  remarked  the  change  in  you  since  you  went  to  Warring- 
ton, how  much  quieter  and  less  full  of  spirits  you  have  been  ?" 

"  That  had  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  I  cry,  with  hot  eager- 
ness, involuntarily  betraying  myself 

"  Then  what  had?"  asks  my  father,  looking  keenly  at  me. 

I  turn  sharply  away  to  hide  my  face.  Then  I  resume  in 
haste,  looking  out  at  the  clusters  of  blown  roses  and  their 
fairer  buds.  "  I  have  never  felt  the  least  envious  of  riches  or 
their  possessors ;  none  of  the  people  at  Warrington  seemed 
particularly  happy  to  me,  though  they  laughed  and  talked  a 
good  deal.    Lady  Gwyneth  was  not  happy,  nor  Mrs.  Hunting- 


DIANA'S  STORK  289 

don  ;  and  even  Mrs.  Warrington  wants  perpetual  amusement 
to  keep  her  from  feeling  dull.  And  at  Alford,  neither  Sir 
Hector  nor  Lady  Montagu  were  the  least  bit  happy ;  and  in 
London  most  people  seemed  to  think  everything  rather  a 
bore, — at  least  they  said  so.  We  are  never  bored,  you  and  I, 
papa,  are  we?"  I  continue,  able  now  to  confront  him  with  a 
smile. 

"This  is  begging  the  question,"  says  papa,  answering  my 
smile  with  another.  "  Come,  Di,  my  dear  child,  I  want  you 
to  think  and  act  like  a  sensible,  reasoning  woman ;  do  not,  I 
entreat  you,  throw  away  such  a  brilliant  prospect  without  the 
gravest  consideration.  I  am  ambitious  for  you.  I  confess  it. 
I  think,"  (fondly) — "  there  can  be  no  harm  in  my  saying  it, 
since  you  have  no  doubt  heard  it  often  enough  by  this  time, — 
I  think  you  are  in  every  way  fitted  to  adorn  a  high  station  in 
life ;  and  it  would  make  me  veiy  happy  to  see  you  placed  in  a 
different  sphere  from  this.  Think,  too,  how  much  you  could 
do  for  Curly  if  you  married  Lord  Seldon." 

My  eyes  fill  with  tears. 

"  Papa,"  I  cry,  passionately,  "you  know  I  love  you  both  ; 
you  know  I  would  do  anything  in  the  world  to  make  you 
both  happy ;  it  would  not  seem  hard  to  die  to-morrow  for 
either  of  your  sakes;  but  would  you  sacrifice  all  my  life  just 
for  a  few  advantages  that  I  do  not  value  in  the  least?" 

"  Say  no  more,  Di,"  answers  my  father,  sighing.  "  I  sup- 
pose" (wearily)  "  Providence  orders  everything  for  good." 
And  he  takes  his  paper  and  goes,  leaving  me  a  prey  to  bitter 
regrets. 

Why  do  fathers  and  brothers  always  think  it  a  matter  of 
course,  involving  no  sacrifice  on  the  part  of  the  girl,  that  she 
should  give  up  all  hcrfuture  to  a  man  she  neither  loves  Bor 
respects,  if  only  he  happens  to  be  rich  or  titled  ?  It  is  a 
mean,  base  thing  for  a  man  to  sell  himself,  but  it  is  a  crown 
of  glory,  it  seems,  to  a  woman.  Tlie  same  thing  has  hap- 
N  2o 


290  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

pence!  to  most  of  my  heroines :  some  of  them  have  weakly 
yielded,  and,  of  course,  been  utterly  wretched  ever  after. 
Then,  Avhcn  it  was  too  late,  when  they  had  been  driven  to 
madness  or  an  early  death,  the  fathers  and  brothers  had  been 
smitten  with  a  tardy  remorse  ;  but  what  use  was  that  ?  I  am 
determined  tliat  mine  shall  have  no  such  cause  for  regret.  I 
will  iKjt  marry  against  my  inclination.  But,  though  I  am 
resolute,  my  heart  is  heavy  as  I  think  how,  by  sacrificing 
myself,  I  might  make  the  future  brighter  for  the  two  beings 
whom  I  love  most  in  the  world. 

I  cannot  settle  to  anything  this  morning :  so  I  take  a  book 
from  the  shelves,  call  the  pug,  let  out  the  other  dogs,  and 
betake  myself  -to  the  garden.  We  have  a  piece  of  water  in 
our  grounds,  though  not  half  the  size  of  the  one  at  Alford  : 
it  is  situated  in  the  midst  of  the  old-fashioned  garden,  half 
vegetable-  half  flower-garden,  planted  with  the  real  old-fash- 
ioned flowers, — hollyhocks,  sweet-williams,  Canterbury  bells, 
larkspurs,  blueflags,  and  such  like.  The  banks  are  green  and 
mossy,  and  there  is  shade  from  a  few  fine  old  trees  independ- 
ently of  the  apple-,  pear-,  cherry-,  and  mulberry-trees  which 
combine  the  useful  with  the  ornamental.  The  great  lily- 
leaves  are  spread  over  most  of  the  lakelet's  surface ;  their 
proud  pure  white  flowers  ride  the  glossy  water  triumphantly, 
meeting  and  answering  back  the  sun's  fervent  glances  with 
their  golden  eyes ;  there  is  a  hush  fallen  upon  nature  ;  tl:e 
birds  do  not  sing  these  blazing  July  days. 

I  lie  tranquilly  on  the  bank,  too  indolent  even  to  read,  per- 
haps without  the  heart ;  and  I  try  not  to  think,  but  to  let  the 
drowsy  heat  creep  through  my  veins  and  lull  me  into  stupor. 
No  very  easy  task,  though,  with  that  very  vivacious  young  lady 
the  pug  bent  upon  a  real  good  game  with  her  four-footed 
friends.  She  is  in  a  restless  worrying  humor  this  morning, 
and  the  spaniel  very  kindly  enters  into  her  mood,  and  between 
them  they  play  a  rampant  game  under  the  bushes  and  over 


DIANA'S  STORY.  291 

my  prostrate  form,  that  is  not  encouraging  to  soft  repose. 
Even  the  solemn  oki  retriever  joins  somewhat  in  the  spirit  of 
the  thing,  and,  lying  lazily  on  his  back,  opening  his  shark -like 
mouth,  feigns  with  low  growls  to  swallow  the  pug's  head. 
That  active  and  remorseless  little  beast  does  not  possess  the 
excellent  virtue  of  knowing  when  her  playmates  have  had 
enough :  the  spaniel,  tired  out  at  last,  lays  himself  down  with 
lolling  tongue  and  panting  sides,  and  tries  to  get  a  little  quiet 
amusement  out  of  gnawing  the  wing  of  a  dead  bird.  Not  a 
bit  of  it  I  Miss  Pug  tears  it  from  him  tooth  and  nail,  and  a 
general  chivy  ensues,  until  the  spaniel's  attention  is  arrested 
by  a  big  red-finned  fish  leaping  out  of  the  water.  In  he 
springs  with  a  mighty  splash,  whilst  the  pug,  filled  with  envy 
and  admiration,  contemplates  him  from  the  bank.  But  when 
he  reaches  the  centre  of  the  widening  circles  his  prey  is  gone. 
Round  and  round  he  swims,  lost  in  amazement,  and  unable  to 
convince  himself  that  it  has  disappeared  from  the  face  of  the 
waters.  Again  it  leaps  farther  oif,  and  he  hurries  after  it, 
only  to  meet  the  same  disappointment. 

"  Here  you  are  !"  exclaims  a  kind,  merry  voice  behind  me, 
and,  starting  up,  I  see  Claire  Fane,  equipped  in  her  neat  blue 
habit,  looking  down  upon  me. 

"  You  good  fairy  !"  I  cry,  joyfully,  "  to  come  just  at  the 
very  moment  of  all  others  that  you  are  wanted  !  I  was  feeling 
so  dull,  and  what  you  fashionable  people  call  desoeuvreey 

"  That  is  the  penalty  you  pay  for  going  into  the  fashionable 
world,'-'  she  answers,  gayly.  "  I  have  come  to  hear  all  about 
your  grand  doings." 

She  links  her  arm  in  mine,  and  we  go  towards  the  old  mul- 
berry-tree that  overhangs  the  water,  and  under  which  there  is 
a  bench.  Claire  takes  her  seat  upon  it,  and  I  throw  myself 
down  at  her  feet  with  my  arms  in  her  lap,  so  that  I  can  com- 
mand a  good  view  of  her  kind,  pretty  face.  It  beams  and 
smiles  so  sweetly  and  syuipalhetiually  upon  me,  and  I  feel  so 


292  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

forlorn  and  miserable,  that  I  yield  to  the  great  impulse  that 
besets  me  to  pour  out  my  heart  to  her. 

"  I  wish,"  I  say,  earnestly,  "  that  I  had  never  been  into  the 
fashionable  world, — never  been  away  from  this  dull  quiet 
place,  where  I  was  always  so  happy  before." 

"  And  you  are  not  happy  now, — not  quite  happy  ?  I  can 
read  that  in  your  fi\ce,"  she  says,  in  her  sweet,  grave  voice. 
''  Tell  me,  dear,  how  is  it?" 

For  all  my  answer  I  bury  my  face  in  her  lap  and  cry  as  if 
my  heart  would  break.  She  does  not  interrupt  me  with  im- 
portunate questions;  she  only  lets  her  hand  wander  softly 
over  my  hair,  and  waits  until  the  fit  is  over  and  I  care  to 
speak  again. 

"  Claire,"  I  say,  when  my  sobs  have  at  last  died  away,  "you 
are  so  good.  Tell  me,  how  is  it  that  we  are  allowed  to  think 
the  world  such  a  bright  happy  place,  and  when  we  come  to  see 
it  nearer  and  live  in  it  we  are  to  be  so  miserably  disappointed?" 

"Indeed,  dear,  I  cannot  tell,"  she  answers,  softly,  still 
stroking  my  hair.  "  But  there  is  one  thing  I  am  quite  sure 
of,  and  that  is  that  we  do  not  really  know  what  is  good  for  us, 
and  that  often  and  often  if  we  had  the  things  we  long  for  so 
ardently  we  should  come  to  look  on  the  gratifying  of  our 
wishes  as  our  heaviest  punishment.  Perhaps,  indeed,  I  think" 
(looking  at  me  earnestly),  "  that  would  be  your  case." 

I  turn  my  eyes  away  from  her  face  and  look  up  the  long 
green  vista  over  which  the  apple-trees  are  stretching  their 
crooked  aims  towards  each  other. 

"  Do  you  know,  then,"  I  ask,  in  a  low  voice,  "  what  it  is 
that  makes  me  unhappy  ?" 

"  I  think  I  do"  '(pressing  my  hand).  "  "Will  you  be  vexed 
if  I  guess  ?" 

"No,"  I  answer,  feeling  almost  sure  of  ray  secret. 

"I  think,  then,  that  you  are  unhappy  about  Charlie 
Montagu." 


DIANA'S  STORY.  '  293 

No  need  to  speak  :  my  face  tells  her  at  once  that  she  has 
guessed  aright. 

"  How  do  you  know  ?"  I  ask,  quickly.  "  Who  could  have 
told  you  ?"  And  then  I  go  on  eagerly,  wishing  to  defend 
him  and  myself  too.  "  He  can  never  be  anything  to  me.  I 
always  knew  it  from  the  first.  Oh,  Claire,  do  not  think  for 
one  instant  that  I  have  any  thought  of  him.  Indeed — in- 
deed, I  always  knew  it  was  impossible  ;  and"  (apologetically) 
"  I  had  never  seen  anything  of  the  world ;  I  was  not  pre- 
pared  " 

"  My  dear,"  she  interrupts  me,  softly,  "  I  do  not  think  that 
any  amount  of  preparation  makes  any  difference  in  a  case  of 
this  kind.  But,  since  you  know  that  it  is  only  wasting  your 
heart  to  care  for  Charlie,  tell  me,  why  cannot  you  bring  your- 
self to  think  of  some  one  who  I  am  sure  could  and  would 
make  you  very  happy,  and  who  loves  you  with  all  his  heart  ?" 

My  eyes  are  fixed  upon  her  face  as  she  speaks.  I  see  the 
faint  color,  like  the  heart  of  a  rare  shell,  grow  in  her  face.  I 
hear  the  slight  tremor  in  her  voice.  I  feel  the  faint  quiver  in 
her  fingers  that  grasp  mine.  I  know  quite  well  of  whom  she 
speaks:  she  is  pleading  with  me  the  cause  of  the  man  she 
loves. 

Looking  at  her,  seeing  how  fair  and  feeling  in  the  very 
depths  of  my  heart  how  good  she  is,  a  wonder  creeps  over  me 
that  he  can  be  so  blind,  so  dull,  as,  having  all  that  is  sweet 
and  pure  and  good,  all  that  I  have  heard  him  praise  and  value 
a  thousand  times,  within  so  easy  reach,  only  to  stretch  out  his 
hand  and  take,  to  reject  it  and  want  something  so  far  meaner, 
poorer,  smaller.  The  wonder  is  so  great  that,  however  silly 
and  tactless  it  may.  seem,  I  cannot  but  speak  out  my  mind. 

'^  How  can  he  care  for  me,"  I  say,  with  the  strongest  accent 
of  astonishment  of  which  my  voice  is  capable,  "  when  he  must 
see  in  you  everything  that  he  most  admires?" 

It  is  she  who  turns  her  head  away,  she  who  is  pained  and 
25* 


231,  ■     FOR  A    \VOlMA^'''S  SAKE. 

embarrassed  now  ;  it  is  my  e^^es  wliicli  dwell  searcliingly  upon 
her  face. 

"  Hush  !"  she  says;  "  I  am  getting  an  old  woman.  I  am 
as  old  or  older  than  he.  We  look  upon  each  other  as  brother 
and  sister." 

"  If,  now,"  I  continue,  pursuing  my  thoughts  aloud,  with 
unintentional  cruelty,  "  it  had  been  he  who  cared  for  you  and 
you  who  did  not  love  him,  it  would  have  been  most  natural." 

"  You  are  prejudiced,"  she  answers,  quietly.  "  I  do  not 
believe  the  man  exists  who  is  more  worthy  of  a  woman's  love 
than  Hector.  And,  dear  Di,  if  you  knew  him  as  I  do,  if  you 
could  only  see,  through  the  mask  of  reserve  and  shyness  that 
he  wears,  how  really  unselfish  and  noble  he  is,  you  would  love 
him  too,  and  be  the  happiest  woman  in  the  world." 

For  a  moment,  for  one  moment  only,  a  doubt  creeps  into 
my  mind  whether  she  really  cares  for  him.  Is  it  possible  for 
anything  so  magnanimous  to  breathe  as  a  woman  who  loves  a 
man  pleading  for  him  to  another  woman  ? 

"  How  do  you  know,"  I  ask,  "  that  he  cares  for  me  ?  Has 
papa  told  you  ?" 

"  He  told  me  himself,"  she  answers,  slowly. 

I  feel  enraged  at  this  wanton,  selfish  cruelty  on  his  part: 
he  must  know  that  she  loves  him. 

"  When  ?"  I  ask,  briefly,  knowing  that  to  say  anything 
against  him  would  be  to  give  her  double  pain. 

•'  Soon  after  his  father  died.  Oh,  Di"  (very  earnestly), 
"  you  must  take  pity  upon  him.  I  never  saw  a  man  look  so 
haggard  and  miserable  in  my  life." 

"  That  was  not  on  my  account,"  I  say,  impatiently.  "  Hec- 
tor jMoutagu  is  not  at  all  a  man  to  be  desperately  in  love  with 
any  woman." 

"  You  do  not  know  him,"  she  answers,  quickly.  "  You  are 
like  every  one  else  :  you  judge  him  by  that  cold  manner  which 
is  only  put  on  to  hide  the  intense  strength  and  depth  of  his 


DIANA'S  STORY.  295 

feelings.  He  owned  to  me  himself  that  he  suffers  so  dread- 
fully from  your  refusal  of  him  that  he  feels  at  times  as  if  his 
reason  would  give  way.  Oh,  dear  Di,  I  entreat  you,  don't  set 
yourself  against  him  so  determinedly  ;  try  to  care  a  little  for 
him  !" 

"  What !  you  too  ?"  I  cry,  with  hot  indignation.  "  Is 
every  one  bent  on  ruining  my  life  ?  Oh,  Claire  !  of  all  peo- 
ple in  the  world  I  should  not  have  expected  you  to  give  me 
such  bad  advice.  Why,  I  should  be  committing  a  positive 
crime  to  marry  a  man  feeling  towards  him  as  I  do  to  Mr. 
Montagu !" 

Somehow  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  call  him  by  his  new 
title.  I  should  like  him  even  less  with  that  name,  which 
reminds  me  only  of  a  harsh,  arbitrary,  selfish  man. 

At  this  moment  the  dogs  spring  up  simultaneously  and 
bound  off,  and  in  the  distance  we  catch  sight  of  papa  coming 
towards  us.     I  always  see  more  of  him  when  Claire  comes. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 


DIANA  S    STORY. 


Time  passes  by  with  lagging  footsteps ;  I  fancy  his  scythe 
has  grown  rusty,  so  slowly  and  lingeringly  it  hacks  and  hews 
at  the  hours  it  used  to  crop  swiftly  enough  of  old.  I  wake 
in  the  morning  with  a  dull  sense  of  oppression,  a  feeling  of 
misgiving  that  there  is  something  wrong,  before  even  I  am 
wide-awake  enough  to  be  conscious  of  reality.  The  mornings 
that  used  to  be  so  short,  how  long  they  arc  now  !  How  weary 
the  hours  from  breakfast  to  lunch  !  Wliat  an/jtcrnity  from 
lunch  to  dinner !     I  have  no  heart  to  read :  is  not  my  own 


29G  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

unhappy  romance  sufficient  for  mo  ?  Less  heart  to  sing  ;  for 
how  can  I  sing  without  remembering  hhi  ?  If  I  try  to  work, 
my  hands  fiiU  idle,  and  my  thoughts  go  back  to  the  one  golden 
day  in  May,  which  has  made  dark  all  the  days  that  follow. 
What  is  sunshine,  what  sweet  scents,  soft  breezes,  fair  scenes, 
to  a  soul  out  of  tune  !  Take  away  happiness  and  leave  all 
that  nature  can  give,  and  it  is  utterly  barren  and  void  ;  but 
take  sunshine,  melody,  zephyrs,  and  leave  love  and  happiness, 
and  the  world  is  yet  full  enough  of  joy  :  give  both  together, 
and  you  have,  not  this  world,  but  heaven.  I  am  reluctant, 
almost,  to  visit  my  poor  :  even  they  seem  less  to  be  pitied 
than  formerly,  when  I  came  out  from  their  poor  hovels  into 
the  sunshine  thanking  God  who  had  made  me  differ. 

The  long  summer  days  creep  on.  When  the  great  sun  sets 
in  his  glorious  flood  of  golden  waves  behind  the  dark  firs,  I 
sigh,  and  say,  as  though  a  weight  were  lifted  from  my  soul, 
There  is  another  day  gone.  But  the  thought  follows.  Are 
there  not  a  tliousand  more  days  in  store  for  you,  each  one  as 
long,  as  dull,  as  prospectless  ?  And  yet  they  say  life  is  short. 
I  begin  to  understand  how  it  is  with  those  who  say  in  the 
evening,  "  Would  God  it  were  morning  !"  and  in  the  morning, 
"  Would  God  the  day  were  done  !" 

But  Curly  is  coming  home  :  it  will  be  different  then  :  I 
shall  brighten  up,  and  forget  that  I  have  been  unhappy. 

A  few  more  long,  weary  days,  in  which  I  try  to  busy 
myself  with  preparations  for  his  home-coming,  decorating  his 
room,  polishing  his  gun,  putting  his  fishing-tackle  in  order, 
and  here  he  is  at  last.  He,  at  all  events,  is  not  changed  : 
there  has  been  nothing  yet  to  sadden  or  sober  him  ;  his  voice 
is  as  ringing,  his  blue  eyes  as  full  of  mirth,  his  bright  face — 
God  bless  it ! — as  handsome  as  ever.  He  is  just  as  affectionate, 
as  glad  to  get  back  to  us,  as  contented  and  pleased  with  every- 
thing, as  he  always  was.  It  is  quite  clear  to  me  that  he  has 
made  up  his   mind  I  shall  be  Lady  Seldon,  or,  as  he  will 


DIANA'S  STORY.  297 

always  have  it,  Duchess  of  Landermere.  He  is  a  stanch 
friend,  and  returns  loyally  to  the  charge  again  and  again,  un- 
daunted by  what  he  is  pleased  to  call  my  wicked  perversity. 

"  I  don't  intend  to  marry  at  all,  Curly,"  I  reiterate.  "  I 
shall  be  an  old  maid,  and  keep  house  for  you." 

"  Many  thanks,"  he  says,  coolly,  "  but  that  sort  of  thing 
never  answers.  You  and  my  wife  would  be  sure  to  quarrel 
like  blazes." 

"  Oh !"  I  return,  opening  my  eyes,  "  you  have  a  wife  in 
view,  then,  have  you  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  have,"  he  says,  magnificently.  "  I  am  con- 
vinced there  is  nothing  steadies  a  follow  like  marrying  young. 
Really,  Di,  I  don't  see  anything  to  laugh  at,"  as  I  greet  this 
announcement  with  a  burst  of  unrestrained  merriment. 

We  are  sitting  at  breakfast  one  morning  towards  the  end  of 
August,  when  the  post-bag  is  brought  in.  Papa  gives  me  a 
letter  with  an  elaborately  heavy  monogram,  addressed  in  a 
hand  which  puzzles  me  at  first  sight  to  decide  whether  it  is 
a  man's  or  a  woman's.  A  letter  is  so  rare  an  event  with  me 
that  I  like  to  make  as  much  as  possible  of  it  by  minutely 
examining  the  exterior  and  guessing  at  its  possible  contents 
before  I  proceed  to  make  myself  master  of  them.  I  am  trying 
to  decipher  the  letters  of  the  monogram,  when  a  jubilant  ex- 
clamation from  Curly  causes  me  to  look  up. 

"  Hu^raJi !     Here,  dad,  cast  your  eye  over  this." 

"  My  dear  Curly,"  papa  reads,  aloud,  and,  having  read  so 
much,  turns  with  some  curiosity  to  the  signature.  "  Gwyneth 
Desbovough,"  he  says,  raising  his  eyebrows. 

I  can  see  distinctly,  as  he  holds  the  letter,  that  the  large 
masculine  hand  is  the  same  as  that  in  which  my  letter  is 
addressed.     Papa  reads  on  : 

"  You  promised  me  a  visit,  and  I  want  you  to  come  over 
on  the  31st  and  have  a  shot  ^t  tjio  partrid<^os.     We  shall 


298  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

only  be  a  small  party,  the  Warringtons  and  Colonel  Montagu 
among  them,  but  there  will  be  good  sport,  and  you  must 
come.  I  shall  take  no  denial,  but  ride  over  and  fetch  you 
myself  if  you  send  an  excuse.  I've  just  bought  a  lovely 
chestnut  mare.  You  shall  ride  her,  for  she  wants  very  light 
handling,  and  I  have  not  allowed  any  one  to  get  on  her  back 
but  myself  yet.  We'll  have  some  jolly  rides  together.  By 
the  same  post  I  have  written  your  sister. 

"  Most  sincerely  yours, 

"  GWYNETH    DeSBOROUGH." 

A  feeling  of  blighting  disappointment  comes  across  me. 
There  is  so  little  time  left  for  Curly  to  be  with  us,  not  much 
more  than  three  weeks,  and  this  woman,  whom  I  dislike  more 
than  any  one  I  Tiave  ever  met,  is  to  take  our  boy  from  us. 

"  Quick,  Di,  read  your  letter,"  cries  Curly.  "  Oh,  dad, 
how  awfully  jolly  it  will  be  !" 

"  Then  you  have  quite  made  up  your  mind  to  go  ?"  says 
papa,  a  twinge  of  pain  contracting  his  face. 

"  Oh,  dad !"  answers  our  boy,  his  bright  face  foiling,  "  it 
would  be  such  a  chance.     But,  of  course"  (ruefully),  "  if 

you  object "     And  there  he  pauses,  not  having  the  heart 

to  offer  to  give  it  up. 

Meantime  I  have  opened  my  letter,  and  read : 

"  Dear  Miss  Carew, 

"  I  hope  your  brother  will  be  able  to  come  to  us  on  the 
31st,  and  it  will  give  us  much  pleasure  if  you  will  accompany 
him.  If  you  care  for  riding,  and  will  bring  your  habit,  I 
have  one  or  two  quiet  horses  in  the  stable  that  might  suit  you." 

"  Lady  Grwyneth  is  very  kind,"  I  say,  with  a  curling  lip, 
"  but  I  shall  not  tax  her  hospitality." 
"  Why  is  that,  Di  ?"  asks  papa. 


DIANA'S  STORY.  299 

"  In  the  first  place,  I  hate  her,"  I  return,  vindictively, 
"  She  is  a  horrid  woman  !" 

"  Don't  believe  her,  dad  !"  cries  Curly,  flushing  up.  "  She's 
an  awfully  nice  woman,  and  I  like  her  tremendously.  Really. 
Di,  I  wonder  at  you:  you  used  not  to  be  spiteful." 

"  I  am  not  spiteful,"  I  retort,  vindicatiog  myself  with  some 
warmth.  "  You  would  not  like  her,  papa.  She  cuts  her  hair 
short,  and  tries  to  be  like  a  man,  and  talks  loud,  and  smokes, 
and  says  rude  things  to  everybody." 

"  Not  a  very  pleasing  picture,  certainly,"  papa  remarks. 
"  Well,  Curly,  what  have  you  to  say  for  the  defense?" 

"  I  know  she  was  awfully  nice  and  kind  to  me,"  replies 
Curly ;  "  but  of  course  women  never  have  a  good  word  for 
each  other." 

Papa  and  I  exchange  a  smile. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  says  papa,  "  don't  take  opinions  at 
second-hand,  particularly  on  the  subject  of  women.  If  you 
don't  find  out,  when  your  turn  for  the  experience  comes,  that 
there  are  plenty  of  women  who  are  neither  jealous  nor  spite- 
ful nor  selfish,  why,  it  will  be  a  very  unlucky  one,  and  very 
difibrent  from  mine." 

"  All  right,  dad,"  remarks  Curly,  getting  up,  and  indulging 
in  a  soft  whistle  to  himself  as  he  goes  out  of  tlie  room. 

"  I  suppose  he  must  go,"  I  say,  in  a  dejected  tone,  as  the 
door  closes. 

"  If  he  does,"  papa  answers.  "  I  should  like  you  to  go  with 
him." 

"That  I  will  not  I"  I  cry,  hastily.  "There  is  nothing  I 
should  dislike  so  much ;  and  it  is  easy  enough  to  see  by  her 
letter  that  she  only  asks  me  out  of  bare  civility." 

"My  dear,"  papa  returns,  with  decision,  "I  most  partic-u- 
larly  wish  you  to  go  if  Curly  docs ;  and  I  suppose"  (sighing) 
"  we  must  not  disappoint  him.  I  fancy  it  is  rather  a  fast  kind 
of  house  ;  and  Lshould  not  like  him  to  be  there  alone.    Your 


300  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

presence  would  be  a  restraint  upon  him,  and  if  you  saw  any- 
thing you  did  not  approve  you  could  write  to  me,  and  I  would 
make  an  excuse  for  summoning  you  both  home.  I  know 
there  are  many  men  and  women  who  (more  shame  to  them) 
like  to  draw  a  boy  out  and  make  a  fool  of  him,  whilst  all  the 
time  he  is  thinking  himself  a  very  fine  fellow.  If,"  papa 
adds,  sorrowfully,  "  I  could  have  pleasant  parties  for  him  at 
home,  and  invite  his  friends  here,  I  would  not  hear  of  his 
going  to  Lady  Gwyneth's;  but,  under  existing  circumstances, 
I  have  no  heart  to  deny  him  a  pleasure  that  he  covets  so 
much." 

"  Oh,  papa,"  I  entreat,  "  don't  ask  me  to  go.  I  should 
hate  it  so." 

"  But  Mrs.  Warrington  will  be  there.  You  will  in  all 
probability  see  very  little  of  your  hostess.  Well,  well,  I  leave 
it  to  you  and  Curly  to  settle  between  you." 

Need  I  say  what  the  result  is  ?  Of  course  I  consent,  and 
when  the  day  comes,  however  reluctant,  however  prescient  of 
an  unpleasant  "  time,"  of  course  I  go. 

"  I  wonder  who  Colonel  Montagu  is  ?"  says  Curly :  "  some 
relation  of  the  Alford  people,  I  suppose." 

"  Sir  Hector  had  a  brother  Colonel  Montagu,"  I  respond, 
briefly.         * 

"  That's  who  it  is,  then,  of  course." 

This  is  the  second  time  that  Curly  and  I  are  starting  on  a 
visit  together.  He  is  even  more  joyous  and  full  of  anticipa- 
tion than  when  we  were  going  to  Warrington ;  but  as  for  mc, 
my  heart  is  like  lead  within  me ;  every  step  that  takes  us 
nearer  to  the  Castle  sends  my  spirits  an  infinitesimal  bit  lower. 
It  is  a  long  drive,  but  we  come  at  last  to  the  castellated  lodge, 
and  the  gates  are  opened  for  us. 

"  '  Leave  all  hope,  ye  who  enter  here,'  "  I  think,  dismally, 
to  myself,  as  they  shut  with  a  clang  behind  us.  Why  does 
this  strange  foreboding  hang  like  lead  upon  me  ? 


DIANA'S  STORY.  301 

The  drive  up  to  the  house  is  magnificent,  through  an 
avenue  of  the  grandest,  stateliest  trees  I  have  ever  seen,  and 
after  half  a  mile  of  them  we  emerge  from  their  splendid  gloom 
into  a  broad  space  all  ablaze  with  vivid  glorious  color,  whence 
not  one  subtle  shade  of  the  prism  seems  wanting. 

As  we  descend  from  the  carriage,  some  one  comes  towards 
me  from  the  broad  doorway.  No,  not  for  the  fairest  gift  in 
the  world,  not  to  save  my  own  head,  can  I  keep  back  the 
traitorous  blood  from  my  face,  or  the  tremulous  quiver  from 
the  hand  that  he  takes  in  his.     It  is  Captain  Montagu. 

"What!  you  here?"  cries  my  brother,  with  enthusiasm. 
"How  jolly!  Why,  Lady  Gwyneth  wrote  ihnt  Colonel  Mon- 
tagu was  coming;  and  we  thought  it  must  be  your  uncle." 

"  Myself  '  Not  Launcelot  nor  another !'  "  he  answers,  laugh- 
ing.    "  Did  you  not  hear  that  I  had  got  my  step?" 

"  No :  you  don't  mean  to  say  you  are  a  colonel !  Well, 
you're  a  jolly  young  one,  at  all  events,"  returns  Curly. 
"Where's  Lady  Gwyneth?" 

"  She  has  gone  out  riding,  and  left  me  to  do  M.C.  She 
told  me  to  tell  you  if  you  came  in  pretty  good  time  that  you 
were  to  be  sure  and  go  to  meet  them ;  there  is  a  horse  ready, 
and  a  man  to  show  you  the  way.  Off  with  you !"  And 
Curly,  needing  no  second  bidding,  darts  away  like  a  shot. 
"  Won't  you  come  into  the  garden  ?"  he  adds  to  me  :  "  it  is 
much  pleasanter  than  the  house.  By  the  way,  have  some 
tea  first :  Lady  Gwyn  commissioned  me  to  look  after  you  and 
do  everything  that  was  right." 

"  No  tea,  thank  you.  Yes,  I  should  like  to  see  the  gar- 
dens."    And  we  stroll  away  together. 

If  I  had  only  guessed  this,  I  tell  myself,  not  all  the  brothers 
in  the  world  should  have  got  me  here ;  and  yet  my  traitorous 
soul  keeps  giving  little  throbs  of  pleasure  at  being  near  him 
once  more,  at  looking  through  my  furtive  eyes  at  his  haud- 
somo,  pleasant  face. 

26 


302  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"  I  did  not  know  until  to-day  that  you  were  coming,"  he 
says,  as  we  turn  off  the  broad  terrace  on  to  the  turf.  "  Have 
you  been  here  before? — I  mean  in  the  old  time  when  poor 

B had  it.     It  was  one  of  the  most  charming  houses  in 

the  county.  Now"  (and  he  turns  with  an  accent  of  disgust  and 
looks  up  at  the  great  structure),  "horrible,  isn't  it?" 

I  take  a  long  survey  of  the  range  of  building.  To  the 
right  is  the  old  part,  gray  with  age,  stained,  moss-grown, 
weather-worn,  but  stately  and  regal ;  and  to  the  left,  brand- 
new,  garish,  with  plate-glass  windows,  and  a  trumpery  attempt 
at  imitation  of  the  veteran  building,  is  the  gigantic  wing  built 
by  its  present  owner. 

"  Look  at  all  the  brand-new  coats  of  arms  of  the  Des- 
boroughs,"  says  my  companion,  laughing;  "  and  see  just  that 
one  of  the  late  owner  over  the  doorway :  the  coronet  is  nearly 
worn  away  with  age.  Poor  fellow !  he  did  a  bad  stroke  of 
work  for  himself  when  he  helped  his  father  to  cut  off  the 
entail.  By  Jove !  I  never  saw  a  family  go  to  the  devil  as 
they  have  done." 

"  I  should  have  thought  Lady  Gwyneth,  at  all  events,  would 
have  had  better  taste,"  I  say,  replying  to  the  first  part  of  his 
sentence. 

"  Poor  Lady  Gwyneth  !  she  declares  this  place  is  a  perfect 
nightmare  to  her :  you  know  it  was  all  done  before  her  time, 
and,  as  she  says,  these  noiiveanx  riches  can't  shake  themselves 
free  of  their  own  newness ;  they  don't  fancy  anything  unless 
it  is  fresh  from  the  shop." 

"  It  is  very  nice  and  wifely  of  her  to  say  such  things,"  1 
return,  dryly;  and  then,  with  energy,  "It  is  mean  and  despi- 
cable enough  of  a  woman  to  marry  for  money  under  any 
circumstances,  but  I  think  it  is  far  meaner  to  ridicule  and 
hold  up  to  contempt  the  man  to  whom  she  is  indebted  for 
everything." 

We  are  walking  down  the  long  green  slopes  to  the  lake 


DIANA'S  STORY.  303 

lying  in  a  vast  hollow.  He  turns  to  me  with  lazy  amusement 
in  his  eyes. 

"  Poor  little  Lady  Gwyn  !"  he  utters.  "  But  you  never  did 
like  her,  I  remember." 

"  Never"  (with  energy).  "  I  dare  say  you  think  it  strange 
my  coming  here  at  all.  I  did  not  want  to :  it  was  only  to 
please  Curly.     Papa  would  not  let  him  come  without  me." 

We  have  reached  the  water :  by  its  margin  are  clumps  of 
shady  trees,  with  seats  under  their  wide  branches,  and  hjre 
we  seat  ourselves. 

"  Charming  piece  of  water,  is  it  not?"  he  says.  "  I  wonder 
if  there  are  any  carp  in  it  ?  Do  you  remember  our  carp-fish- 
ing that  gold "  (hesitating)  "that  day  at  Alford?" 

"  I  renlember  your  catching  some  in  a  net,"  I  answer,  try- 
ing to  speak  indifferently. 

"  In  the  net  ? — yes,"  he  echoes,  absently.  "  By  the  way, 
have  you  seen  Hector  since  he  has  been  invested  with  his  new 
dignity?" 

"  I  have  not  seen  him  since  I  was  at  Alford." 

There  is  a  pause,  during  which  I  look  away  at  the  far  blue 
cloudless  sky,  at  the  shining  water,  at  the  rushes,  at  the  sloping 
sward,  at  everything  but  him,  and  he,  1/ed,  has  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  me. 

"  And  so,"  he  says,  presently,  after  sating  his  curiosity  or 
whatever  other  feeling  may  have  impelled  his  long  gaze, — 
"  And  so  you  refused  Seldon." 

"  I  never  said  so,"  I  replied,  quickly. 

"  No  ;  but  he  did.  Poor  lad  !  he  was  awfully  cut  up,  and 
buttonholed  everybody  about  his  hopeless  suit.  Lady  Egidia 
nearly  caught  him  at  the  rebound,  but  not  quite." 

I  make  no  answer.  I  am  wishing  with  bitter  energy  that 
r  had  not  come. 

"  You  do  not  approve  of  any  but  love-marriages,"  he  goes 
on,  cruelly.     "  I  wonder  you  still  believe  in  love,  after  having 


304  FOR   A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

gone  througli  a  London  season.  Most  of  the  people  I  know 
who  get  on  worst  married  for  love.  What  is  that  French 
saying — you  would  not  know  it,  of  course,  though,  and  I 
never  could  remember  a  quotation  in  my  life.  Let  me  see" 
(trying  to  think) :  "  it  is  apropos  of  marriage, — so  many 
months  of  worship,  so  many  years  of  hatred,  and  the  rest  in- 
difference. Under  these  circumstances  it  does  not  much 
matter  whom  one  marries ;  does  it?" 

"  Under  those  circumstances,  no,"  I  answer,  coldly. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  continues,  "  if  you  think  it  mean  and  des- 
picable in  a  woman  to  marry  for  money  you  would  think  it 
still  worse  in  a  man ;  should  you  not  ?  Suppose,  for  instance, 
I  were  to  tell  you  that  I  think  of  contracting  an  alliance  with 
the  cousin  of  our  host ;  you  would  feel  a  great  contempt  for 
me, — perhaps  never  speak  to  me  again?" 

I  answer  him  by  never  a  word. 

"  Perhaps  you  may  not  know  that  Desborough  has  a  cousin, 
the  only  child  of  his  uncle,  who  was  partner  with  his.  fxther ; 
'■only  this  one  was  not  filled  with  a  lofty  ambition  like  his 
brother,  did  not  change  his  name  to  Desborough,  nor  anything 
else,  but  was  contented  with  the  homely  appellation  of  Pug- 
gins.  Miss  Puggins  is  not  lovely ;  she  has  reddish  hair, 
freckles,  a  soap-and-candle  kind  of  complexion,  and  hands — 
not  hands,  paws.  But  Miss  Puggins  will  have  a  hundred 
thousand  pounds  on  her  wedding-day,  and  another  hundred 
thousand  at  the  demise  of  Puggins  j9e?-e;  and  Lady  Gwyneth, 
who  is  very  good-natured,  though  you  do  not  like  her,  is  doing 
her  best  to  make  up  the  match." 

I  look  up  at  him 

"  With  some  surprise,  and  thrice  as  much  disdain," 

but  never  a  word  do  I  answer. 

"  You  have  a  very  speaking  countenance,"  he  says,  turning 
away  from  me. 


DIANA'S  STORY.  305 

"  Have  I  ?"  I  cry,  my  passionate  anger  and  contempt  break- 
ing into  words  at  last.  "  I  am  glad  to  hear  it.  I  should  like 
to  be  sure  that  I  look  what  I  feel,  for  there  are  no  words  that 
I  know  of  which  would  express  it." 

A  strange  look  comes  over  his  face  as  I  speak.  Suddenly 
he  stretches  out  his  arms  to  me. 

"Oh,  darling,  for  God's  sake!"  he  cries,  and  then  turns 
sharply  and  walks  away  from  me  along  the  lake's  margin. 

And  I,  maddened  with  bitter  pain  and  anger,  take  my  way 
swiftly  back  to  the  house. 


CHAPTER   XXXII. 


DIANA  S   STORY. 


My  cup  is  not  yet  full.  I  hear  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  War^ 
rington  are  not  coming ;  he  has  slightly  sprained  his  ankle, 
and  is  unable  to  walk.  I  learn  something  also  that  vexes  me 
still  more  ;  Lord  Rexborough  is  here. 

"  Such  a  jolly  party !"  Curly  tells  me,  with  enthusiasm  ; 
"  and  only  a  small  one, — which  makes  it  all  the  pleasanter ; 
though  I'm  awfully  sorry  about  poor  old  Warrington.  Lady 
Gwyneth's  sister.  Lady  Audrey,  just  as  jolly  as  Lady  Gwyn. 
Miss  Puggins,  Desborough's  cousin, — such  a  caution"  (sub- 
siding into  laughter)  ;  "  but  I'm  not  to  make  fun  of  her,  be- 
cause Lady  Gwyn  wants  to  get  up  a  match  between  her  and 
Charlie  Montagu.  Fancy,  Di,  a  good-looking  chap  like  that 
taking  up  with  Miss  Puggins  !  Puggins  !  by  jingo  !  what  a 
name !  I  don't  wonder  at  her  wanting  to  change  it.  That 
makes  four  ladies,  with  you,  and  we  four  men  :  so  we're  just 
complete.     I  wouldn't  mind  cluuiging  that  little  snob  Dos- 

2G* 


300  FOn  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

borough  for  some  one  else, — say  Seldnn,  for  instance"  (with 
a  sly  glance  at  me).  "  And,  Di"  (frowning  a  little),  "  I  say, 
do  make  up  your  mind  to  be  [ileasant  and  civil  to  Lady  Gwyn. 
I'm  sure  you'd  like  her  if  you  knew  her  as  well  as  I  do." 

"  Grant  me  patience  !"  I  tiiink  ;  but  I  answer  by  a  smile. 
If  I  am  unhappy  and  dissatisfied  at  being  here,  that  is  no 
reason  I  should  wish  to  infect  him  with  my  discontent. 

I  do  not  meet  my  hostess  until  we  are  assembled  before 
dinner.  She  greets  me  with  much  pohteness,  not  to  say  cor- 
diality, and  I  cannot  help-  thinking  that,  so  far,  she  shines  to 
more  advantage  in  her  own  house  than  she  did  at  Warrington. 
Her  sister  is  a  second  edition  of  herself;  if  anything,  rather 
noisier,  and  more  free  of  speech.  Lord  Rexborough  greets 
me  effusively  ;  my  host,  who  looks  smaller  and  more  snobbish 
than  ever,  treats  me  with  patronizing  civility. 

"  So  we  are  reduced  to  eight,"  says  Lady  Gwyneth,  address- 
ing Lord  Rexborough, — "  a  most  odious  number,  particularly 
at  dinner,  where  it  entails  two  men  and  two  women  sitting 
^together." 

"  Can't  be  helped,"  he  answers.  "  Only  having  a  lady  on 
one  side  of  you,  you  can't  make  the  other  jealous,  you  know." 

"  Ah,  but  you  are  one  of  the  fortunate  ones,"  laughs  Lady 
Gwyneth.  "  Knowing  your  proclivities,  I  have  taken  care 
that  you  sha'n't  be  left  out  in  the  cold." 

Here  dinner  is  announced.  Mr.  Desborough  takes  me  (1 
suppose  he  could  not  very  well  take  any  one  else).  After  all, 
it  is  just  as  well.  I  would  rather  sit  next  to  him  than  Lord 
Rexborough  ;  and  Curly  could  not  take  his  own  sister.  As 
for  Captain  Montagu  (I  cannot  bring  myself  to  think  of  him 
as  colonel),  he  of  course  has  the  heiress  assigned  him  ;  and 
heaven  knows  the  less  I  speak  to  him  the  less  likely  am  I  to 
feel  bitter  and  miserable.  Lady  Audrey  sits  on  my  lefl,  but 
she  does  not  waste  the  sweets  of  her  conversation  upon  me : 
she,  her  sister,  Lord  Rexborough,  and  Curly  make  a  very 


DIANA'S  STORY.  307 

lively,  not  to  say  noisy,  quartet.  The  other  four  members  of 
the  party  are  as  conspicuously  dull  and  silent.  I  am  not  a  big 
enough  swell  to  make  my  host  put  out  his  conversational 
powers.  Miss  Puggins,  on  his  other  side,  does  not  seem  very 
talkative;  and  Captain  Montagu  devotes  himself  to  his  din- 
ner. I  have  remarked  that  whatever  disturbing  causes  may 
aiFect  a  man's  mind,  they  very  rarely  interfere  with  his  enjoy- 
ment of  dinner,  especially  if,  as  in  this  instance,  it  is  an  ex- 
ceptionally good  one.  Such  is  not  the  case  with  a  woman,  I 
suppose,  or,  at  all  events,  with  a  girl.  I  have  naturally  a  most 
healthy  appetite,  but  under  the  influence  of  any  excitement 
food  is  abhorrent  to  me.  So  I  say,  "  No,  thank  you,"  to 
almost  everything,  to  my  host's  evident  disgust,  and  occupy 
myself  by  watching  furtively  my  opposite  neighbors. 

"  Really,  Miss  Carew,"  says  Mr.  Desborough,  out  of  all 
patience  at  last,  "  I  am  afraid  you  are  very  hard  to  please,  or 
your  appetite  is  a  wonderfully  small  one.  It  would  be  hardly 
worth  while  to  keep  a  two-hundred-guinea  chef  for  so  unap- 
preciative  a  lady."  • 

"  I  have  a  very  good  appetite,  thank  you,"  I  answer. 
"  Everything  looks  delicious,  but  at  home  I  am  only  accus- 
tomed to  one  or  two  dishes,  and  those  of  the  plainest  kind." 

He  stares  at  me  in  undisguised  astonishment.  He  evi- 
dently cannot  imagine  any  one  revealing  their  own  shame 
(poverty  is  shame  to  him),  much  less  glorying  in  it.  For 
somehow  I  do  take  a  delight  in  making  the  worst  and  hum- 
blest of  myself  before  him,  by  way  of  contrast  to  his  vulgar 
assumption, 

"  Oh  !"  he  says,  when  he  can  find  words  ;  "  thei'c  will  be 
some  mutton  presently,  I  dare  say." 

Meantime,  I  am  taking  an  inventory  of  Miss  Puggins's 
charms.  She  has  red  hair,  plain  red, — not  auburn,  nor  burn- 
ished gold,  nor  mordure,  nor  the  subtle  sun-kissed  shade  dear 
to  painters,  but  red,  plain  red,  such  as  in  common  unvarnished 


308  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

speech  is  called  carrotty.  And  her  complexion !  one  might 
call  her  tallow-face,  if  one.  did  not  remember  that  Juliet's 
father  once  said, — 

"  Out  on  you,  tallow-face !" 

She  has  nothing  to  remind  one  of  Juliet,  except  perhaps 
that  her  Romeo  is  next  her,  and  my  eyes  flit  from  her  dull, 
vacant  face  and  rest  lovingly  on  his.  Yes,  lovingly ;  I  will 
not  recall  the  word ;  however  low  he  may  have  fallen  in  my 
esteem,  however  I  may  have  banished  him  from  his  throne  in 
my  heart,  nothing  can  detract  from  the  outward  beauty  of  his 
face,  that  makes  it  a  pleasure  (a  sad  enough  one,  heaven 
knows  !)  only  to  look  at  him.  And  Romeo's  name  was  Mon- 
tagu, I  think,  and  the  conceit  pleases  me.  I  resume  my  con- 
templation of  her  face,  which  looks  uglier  by  contrast  with  the 
beauty  of  his,  as  his  looks  handsomer  from  its  proximity  to 
the  plainness  of  hers.  She  has  dull  blue  eyes,  a  short,  thick 
nose,  a  mouth  rather  wide  and  thin-lipped,  but  her  teeth — 
oh,  great  redeeming  point ! — are  good.  She  has  large  red 
hands,  and  seems  to  know  it,  for  she  tries  to  hide  them.  Now 
and  then  Colonel  Montagu  talks  to  her.  It  is  evidently  up- 
hill work,  but  her  dull  face  brightens  up  with  pleasure,  and 
she  takes  the  opportunity  to  glance  shyly  up  in  the  face  that 
she  evidently  finds  as  handsome  as  I  do.  Poor  girl  I  I  feel  no 
spite  or  grudge  against  her  ;  indeed,  I  am  rather  sorry  for  her 
than  other wise,-^she  is  so  utterly  unattractive,  the  most  jeal- 
ous woman  on  earth  could  not  suffer  one  pang  through  her. 
If  she  marries  him  ten  times  over,  I  shall  feel  no  jealousy  of 
her;  of  what  value  is  the  beautiful  case  when  the  jewels  are 
gone  from  it? 

It  is  a  dreary  ordeal  to  me,  this  long,  sumptuous,  costly 
dinner  ;  the  many  wax  lights,  the  heavy  odorous  flowers,  the 
glittering  gold  and  silver  plate,  the  shining  glass,  are  no  curious 
feast  for  my  eyes,  now  they  have  grown  accustomed  to  such 


DIANA'S  STORF.  309 

sights.  The  loud,  merry  laughter  of  the  hostess  and  her 
friends  jars  upon  me.  Once  or  twice  they  try  to  draw  Colonel 
Montagu  into  their  gay  talk,  but  he  too  seems  somewhat  out 
of  sorts  to-night,  and  only  half  responds. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you,  Charlie?"  roars  Lord  Rex- 
borough  across  the  table.  "  You're  as  dull  as  ditch-water. 
Are  you  uncomfortable  about  the  Leger,  or  are  you  medi- 
tating upon  the  heavy  responsibility  of  being  a  lieutenant- 
colonel  ?"  * 

"  That's  it,"  answers  Colonel  Montagu,  looking  up  and 
laughing.  "  I  am  trying  to  think  how  the  deuce  I  shall 
spend  all  my  leave." 

"  Oh,  go  and  look  on  at  them,  and  make  yourself  popular 
by  doing  other  fellows'  '  guards,'  like  the  'bus-driver  on  a 
holiday." 

"  That  might  be  a  good  plan,"  replies  the  other,  and  thea 
he  returns  to  silence  and  his  dinner. 

Curly's  voice  is  loud,  his  face  is  flushed,  and  a  sudden  fear 
steals  over  me  lest  he  sbould  be  drinking  more  than  is  good 
for  him.  I  begin  to  watch ;  the  butler  is  going  round  con- 
stantly filling  the  guests'  glasses,  and  I  see  with  intense 
inxiety  that  Curly  never  refuses.  What  can  I  do  ?  A  feel- 
ing of  positive  agony  comes  over  me  as  I  reflect  how  im- 
possible it  would  be  for  me  to  interfere  or  even  to  give  him 
the  slightest  hint.  I  forget  the  very  existence  of  the  people 
who  have  so  utterly  occupied  me  until  now,  and  strain  my 
cars  painfully  to  catch  what  he  is  saying.  He  is  talking  in  a 
boasting,  swaggering  way,  oh,  so  difiierent  from  his  usual  tone 
and  manner!  and  I  see  with  indignant  pain  that  Lady  Gwyneth, 
her  sister,  and  Lord  Rexborough  arc  leading  him  on,  and  ex- 
changing occasional  glances  of  amusement.  My  blood  begins 
to  boil :  all  my  old  instinctive  dislike  to  Lady  Grwyneth  surges 
up  in  my  heart.  I  positively  hate  her.  At  last, — at  last  she 
rises  from  the  table,  and  T  rise  too,  trembling  in  every  limbj 


310  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

for  I  have  made  up  my  mind  what  to  do.  I  cross  straight 
over  to  him,  and  whisper,  cntreatingly,  "  Dear  boy,  do  come 
with  us,  or,  if  you  stay,  pray  don't  drink  any  more." 

He  looks  at  me  with  an  angry  glance  and  turns  away  with- 
out a  word,  and  I  am  obliged  to  follow  the  other  women. 

»  Lady  Gwyneth,"  I  say,  as  the  door  closes  upon  us,  "  may 
I  speak  to  you  a  moment?"  and' she  answers,  "Certainly," 
with  a  glance  of  chill  surprise  at  my  flushed,  excited  fiKie. 
The  trains  of  the  other  two  are  disapjwaring  round  the  corner, 
and  my  hostess  and  I  are  standing  in  the  vast  hall,  under  one 
of  the  great  swinging  lamps,  whose  light  makes  every  expres- 
sion of  our  faces  plainly  visible  to  each  other. 

"  My  brother  is  not  used  to  drink  very  much  at  home,"  I 
whisper,  dashing  eagerly  into  my  subject :  "  he  has  had,  I 
fear,  more  than  is  good  for  him  to-night,  and  papa  would  be 
so  dreadfully  vexed." 

"  Nonsense !"  she  answers,  with  a  light  laugh :  "  he  is  all 
right  enough.  You  can't  keep  him  tied  to  your  apron-string 
forever.     It  will  do  him  good  to  break  out  for  a  change." 

I  feel  bitterly  incensed  with  her  for  making  light  of  what 
seems  so  dreadfully  serious  to  me. 

"  That  is  not  our  idea,"  I  answer,  hotly.  "  Papa  would 
never  forgive  me  if  I  allowed  him  to — to  disgrace  himself." 

"  What  do  you  propose  doing,  then  ?"  she  asks,  looking  at 
me  coldly.  "  Perhaps  you  would  prefer  to  disgrace  him  for- 
ever in  his  own  eyes  by  sending  the  butler  to  fetch  him  out 
of  the  room," 

"  There  is  no  need  of  that,"  I  say,  hastily.  "  If  you  would 
f-end  some  message  to  him,  he  would  come  at  once,  and  you 
could  make  an  excuse  to  prevent  his  going  back." 

"  I  will  be  no  party  to  it,"  she  replies,  moving  off.  "  You 
are  at  liberty  to  do  anything  you  like.  And  as  to  the  boy's 
having  had  too  much,  it  is  simply  your  own  imagination." 

And  Lady  Gwyueth  walks  away,  and  leaves  me  alone  under 


DIANA'S  STORY.  311 

the  lamp  with,  if  my  f;ice  is  as  great  an  index  to  my  mind  as 
people  pretend,  a  very  charming  and  amiable  expression  upon 
it.  I,  Diana  Carcw,  who,  until  last  winter,  never  knew  the 
sensation  of  anger  or  hatred.  Perhaps  I  made  too  much  of 
it.  I  have  often  thought  so  since ;  but  papa  and  I  were  so 
proud  of  our  boy  that  to  see  him  do  anything  calculated  to 
lower  him  in  the  estimation  of  others  would  be  the  cruellest 
pain  to  us.  When  I  join  the  other  women,  Lady  Gwyneth 
and  her  sister  are  talking  to  each  other  in  a  low  voice.  There 
is  nothing  left  for  me  but  to  address  myself  to  the  heiress, 
and  to  count  with  agony  the  long  minutes  until  the  rest  of 
the  party  shall  join  us.  Half  an  hour — half  an  eternity  it 
seems  to  me — creeps  away,  and  then  I  hear,  with  no  relief, 
alas !  Lord  Rexborough's  loud  laugh  mingling  with  Curly's. 
When  they  enter.  Curly  is  leaning  on  the  other's  arm,  not 
only  as  a  mark  of  familiar  affection,  but  because  I  see,  in  an 
agony  of  shame,  that  he  is  incapable  of  supporting  himself 
alone.  His  fair  face  is  flushed,  his  utterance  is  thick,  and  he 
is  unmistakably  the  worse  for  drink.  Lord  Rexborough  looks 
delighted.  "So,"  I  think,  with  the  exaggeration  of  excited 
feeling,  "  so  might  the  arch-fiend  triumph  at  the  destruction 
\  of  a  human  soul."  From  the  experience  of  later  years,  I 
^  have  no  doubt  that  my  emotions  on  the  occasion  were  excess- 
ive, and  that  I  was  very  harsh  in  judging  so  angrily  the  rest 
of  the  party,  to  whom  the  fact  of  an  Eton  boy  taking  two  or 
sX  three  more  glasses  of  wine  than  was  good  for  him  was  so  venial, 
""  not  to  say  natural,  an  offense  that  they  looked  upon  it  only 
with  amused  indulgence. 

Lord  Rexborough  has  piloted  him  to  a  sofa,  where  he  lolls 
with  an  abandon  that  he  would  never  dream  of  at  other 
moments,  for  there  is  no  better-mannered  young  fellow  in  the 
world  than  our  boy. 

'■  Who's  for  a  round  game  ?"  cries  Lady  Gwyneth. 

"I  am,"  shouts  Curly:  "by  jingo,  yes,  let's  have  a  round 


312  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

game !  Where  arc  the  cards  ?  Here,  let  me  help  you  get 
them."     And  he  tries  to  stagger  up. 

"  Better  hold  on  to  the  sofa,  my  boy,"  roars  Lord  Rex- 
borough;  and  Lady  Gwyneth — how  I  hate  her! — joins  in 
the  laugh.  Every  one  takes  a  place  at  the  round  table  except 
myself,  and,  although  Lord  E-cxborough  holds  out  the  induce- 
ment of  being  my  partner  and  of  instructing  me  in  the  mys- 
teries of  the  game,  I  resolutely  decline.  I  have  no  heart  to 
play,  even  if  it  were  not  for  the  deterring  thought  that  they 
will  play  for  money,  which  I  cannot  afford.  ,  This  conjecture 
is  correct.  I  take  a  book  and  pretend  to  read ;  in  reality  I 
am  listening  and  watching  with  feverish  anxiety.  Curly  is 
evidently  not  in  a  state  to  attend  to  the  game  ;  he  makes  fre- 
quent mistakes,  and  is  utterly  reckless  in  his  play,  and  I  can 
see  that  he  is  losing  a  good  deal  more  than  he  can  afford. 
What  is  worse,  he  is  losing  his  temper,  and  has  already  said 
one  or  two  sharp  rude  things.  My  cheeks  blush  for  him 
until  the  water  comes  into  my  eyes  :  never  in  my  life  have  I 
experienced  such  torture  before.  There  can  be  no  keener 
pang  than  witnessing  and  seeing  others  witness  the  degrada- 
tion of  one  you  love  with  all  your  heart.  At  last  my  long 
anguish  culminates.     Curly  screams  out, — 

"  You're  cheating,  Desborough.  I  swear  you're  cheating  ! 
I  saw  you,  by  Grcorge  I  did  !" 

Mr.  Desborough  gets  up,  flinging  his  cards  on  the  table. 

"Why  do  you  notice  him?"  says  Lady  Grwyneth.  "Sit 
down  :  don't  spoil  the  game." 

"  I'm  not  going  to  play  with  a  drunken  young  fool  who 
doesn't  know  how  to  behave,"  her  husband  retorts. 

"  How  dare  you  call  me  names,"  shrieks  Curly,  springing 
to  his  feet.     "  You  little " 

But  before  he  can  utter  another  word  I  have  grasped  him 
by  the  arm  like  avice  and  am  dragging  him  towards  the  door. 

"  Come  with  me  this  instant !"  I  say,  in  a  vo  ^'  o!"  such 


DIANA'S  STORY.  313 

low,  concentrated  anger  that  I  can  scarcely  believe  it  is  Diana 
Carew's ;  then,  as  he  stares  stupidly  at  me  and  half  resists,  a 
hand  is  put  through  his  other  arm,  and  we  lead  him  away 
between  us. 

I  do  not  look  up  until  we  are  outside  the  door,  and  then  I 
see  that  it  is  Colonel  Montagu.  Curly  stumbles  up  one  or 
two  stairs,  then  leans  staggering  against  the  balustrade. 
,  "  Go  on  and  show  me  the  way,"  whispers  Colonel  Montagu  ; 
Mnd.  as  I  obey,  he  takes  him  up  in  his  arms  like  a  child  and 
carries  him. 

I  did  not  think  this  languid  Guardsman  was  so  strong. 
My  swift,  trembling  feet  precede  him,  and  he  lays  his  unre- 
sisting burden  on  the  bed. 

"  Now,"  he  whispers,  kindly,  "  go  away  for  a  little  while, 
and  I  will  put  him  to  bed.  Don't  look  distressed"  (smiling)  : 
"  I  have  had  the  same  office  performed  for  me  dozens  of  tinies 
when  I  was  a  lad."  And  he  begins  to  unfasten  Curly's  neck- 
tie and  pull  off  his  boots  as  gently  as  a  woman. 

I  go  as  he  bids  me,  blessing  him  a  thousand  times  in  my 
heart,  every  angry  thought  of  him  banished  utterly,  oply  so 
thankful  to  set  my  idol  half-way  up  on  his  pinnacle  again.  I 
wander  in  a  desultory  way  about  the  corridor  until  he  comes 
out. 

"  He  is  asleep  now,"  he  says.     "  You  can  sit  with  him  a 

little  while,  if  you  like.     You  won't  care  to  come  down  again 

to-night,  I  dare  say.     G-ood-night"  (with  a  kind  pressure  of 

*the  hand).     "Don't  think  anything  of  it:  no  one  else  will." 

Not  think  anything  of  it !  As  I  sit  listening  to  Curly's 
uneasy  stertorous  breathing,  my  heart  is  torn  with  pain ;  I 
feel  as  if  some  dire  calamity  had  come  upon  our  house.  A 
horrible  vista  stretches  out  before  me,  wherein,  with  all  the 
reckless  exaggeration  of  inexperience,  I  see  Curly  going  irre- 
trievably to  perdition,  and  his  evil  angels,  in  the  shape  of 
Lady  Gwyneth  and  Lord  Rcxborough,  hounding  him  on. 
o  27 


314  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

I  am  roused  from  my  horrid  reverie  by  his  voice  calling  me. 

"Oh,  my  head!  my  head  !"  he  moans.  "  Oh.  Di,  I  feel  so 
ill!" 

It  is  hours  before  I  leave  him.  At  last  he  is  sleeping  quietly 
and  peacefully,  and,  heavy  at  heart,  I  go  to  my  own  room. 
Tlie  lights  are  still  burning ;  in  the  distance  I  hear  voices  and 
laughter  ;  the  party  has  evidently  not  yet  broken  up.  I  look 
at  my  watch  :  it  wants  ten  minutes  to  two.  ^ 

I  go  to  bed,  but  not  to  sleep  for  a  long  time.  One  thing,  I. 
feel,  is  inevitable, — that  we  leave  on  the  morrow.  I  shrink 
from  it,  because  it  involves  humiliation  to  my  darling  brother, 
but  none  the  less  I  feel,  for  his  own  sake,  for  the  duty  I  owe 
to  him,  for  my  sense  of  responsibility  to  papa,  it  must  be  done. 
Then  at  last,  when  it  is  broad  daylight,  I  fall  into  a  heavy, 
dreamless  sleep,  out  of  which  I  am  awakened  by  a  knock  at 
my  door.  It  is  rather  loud  and  imperative,  as  though  it  were 
not  the  first  summons.  I  wake  en  sursaut,  as  the  French 
happily  express  it,  and  cry, — 

"  Come  in." 

The  door  opens,  and  Curly  comes  in.  He  is  dressed,  but 
he  looks  pale  and  not  himself  In  a  moment  every  detail  of 
last  night's  scene  rushes  vividly  across  me.  He  comes  towards 
me,  and  then  suddenly,  before  I  can  utter  a  word,  he  has  flung 
himself  on  his  knees  by  my  bedside  and  is  sobbing  his  heart 
out.  No  need  for  any  reproach  from  me.  I  might  have 
known  how  it  would  be  with  my  boy  ;  so  I  lay  loving  hands 
on  his  drooped  head,  loving  lips  on  his  golden  curls,  and  my* 
tears  rain  down  as  swift  as  his,  and  my  heart  is  choked  with 
sobs. 

"  Forgive  me,  darling  Di !"  he  says,  at  last,  in  a  smothered 
voice.  "I  don't  feel  as  if  1  could  ever  forgive  myself  How 
could  I  be  such  a  beast  ?" 

How  can  I  heap  words  upon  my  boy's  bitter  self-reproach  ? 
— and  yet  how  can  I  defend  him  ?     So  I  am  silent. 


DIANA'S  STORY.  315 

"  It  is  the  first  time,"  he  says,  tremulously,  "  aud  it  shall 
be  the  last,  I  swear,  Di.  Dou't  say  a  word, — I  know  what 
you  must  thiuk ;  but  I  will  make  up  for  it, — you  shall  see." 

"  It  was  all  Lady  Gwyneth's  fault,"  I  cry,  hotly. 

"  No,  it  was  not,"  he  maintains,  stoutly  ;  "  it  was  my  own, 
and  no  one  else's.  But  I  will  beg  Desborough's  pardon,  and 
if  ever  they  catch  me  getting  drunk  again,  may  I — may  I 
iteel  as  sorry  and  ashamed  as  I  do  now  !" 

And  so  all  thought  of  a  hasty  and  abrupt  departure  takes 
wing,  and  I  do  not  even  tell  Curly  what  I  had  intended. 

"  I'd  rather  not  go  down  without  you,"  he  says,  presently. 
"  You  won't  mind,  Di,  will  you  ?" 

Mind  !  Would  I  not  gladly  bear  upon  my  head  all  the 
brunt  of  the  shame,  if  I  could  ?  I  put  my  arms  round  his 
neck  and  answer  him  by  a  kiss. 

I  have  slept  late,  and  when  we  go  down-stairs  every  one  is 
already  there.  Curly  goes  straight  up  to  his  host,  his  lair 
honest  face  flushing,  and  says,  in  a  quivering  voice, — 

"  IMr.  Desborough,  I  am  heartily  ashamed  of  my  behavior 
last  night,  and  I  beg  your  pardon  and  everybody  else's  a 
thousand  times." 

I  don't  know  how  any  one  else  feels,  but  my  eyes  are 
blinded  with  tears,  and  I  am  only  too  glad  to  drop  unnoticed 
into  the  first  chair. 

When  I  look  up  again,  every  one  is  talking  and  laughing 
very  gayly,  and,  thank  God !  if  I  suifered  shame  for  my 
brother  last  night,  I  can  feel  proud  of  him  again  this  morning.- 


316  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 


CHAPTER    XXXIII. 

Diana's  story. 

Curly  keeps  steadfastly  to  his  resolve, — resists  all  tempta- 
tion, aud  drinks  only  with  the  greatest  moderation  ;  so  I  have 
no  more  uneasiness  on  that  score.  The  greater  part  of  the 
fii-st  day  I  spend  alone  ;  the  other  ladies  all  go  with  the  shoot- 
ing-party, and  I  am  left  to  my  own  devices.  They  invite  me, 
as  a  matter  of  course,  to  join  them,  and  I  would  gladly  go  for 
the  sake  of  the  walk,  but  I  cannot  bear  to  see  the  birds  shot. 

"  My  boudoir  is  at  your  disposal,"  says  Lady  Gwyneth,  as, 
booted  and  gaitcred,  she  is  starting  on  the  morning  of  the  1st. 
"  You  will  like  it.  It  is  one  mass  of  velvet,  looking-glass, 
and  gimcracks.  I  never  use  it  myself;  it  is  kept  expressly 
for  the  lady-like  young  ladies  who  come  here.  The  room  I 
live  in  I  call  my  den  ;  but  it  is  not  at  all  in  your  style,  I  am 
sure.  You'll  find  lots  of  books  in  the  boudoir.  If  you  care 
for  French  novels, — but  I  suppose  you  don't, — all  the  newest 
ones  are  in  my  den.  Order  the  carriage  at  any  time  you  like. 
I  hope  you'll  be  amused." 

When  they  have  started,  I  betake  myself,  with  some  heavi- 
ness of  heart,  to  a  peregrination  round  the  house.  I,  who  am 
naturally  bright  and  joyous  and  glad  to  join  in  any  pleasure 
and  laughter,  feel  as  though  the  unenviable  role  of  wet  blanket 
had  been  thrust  upon  me ;  I  am  the  obnoxious  goody  young 
■woman  who  is  shocked  at  everybody  else,  and  whom  the  rest 
of  the  company  studiously  avoid.  I  knew  I  should  hate  this 
visit,  and  I  do, — bitterly,  unspeakably.  Six  more  days,  long, 
dragging,  weary  days,  in  the  forced  company  of  the  man  whom 
I  cannot  look  at  without  pain  and  grief,  whom,  however  small 
it  makes  me  to  confess  it,  I  shall  always  care  for  more  than 


DIANA'S  STORY.  317 

any  other  man.  I  have  carte  hlanclie  to  wander  where  I 
choose,  and  I  begin  with  the  old  part  of  the  house.  The  old 
tapestry,  many  of  the  family  portraits,  the  ancient  furniture, 
is  left  as  in  the  days  of  the  former  owner.  Nothing  can  be 
more  stately,  more  dignified,  in  more  refined  taste.  All  these 
rooms  are  uninhabited  now,  but  Lady  Gwyneth  has  sufficiently 
good  taste  to  leave  them  unaltered.  The  change  to  the  brand- 
new  decorations,  the  garish  colors,  the  acres  of  plate-glass  and 
looking-glass,  the  fantastic  and  staring  monograms  wherever 
they  can  be  crowded  in,  the  rich,  bi'ight-colored  carpets,  the 
cart-loads  of  ormolu.  Presently  I  find  myself  in  Lady  Gwyn- 
eth's  "  den."  It  is  much  more  like  a  man's  room  than  a 
woman's ;  there  are  certainly  none  of  the  elegancies  that  you 
expect  to  see  in .  the  living-room  of  a  woman  of  birth  and 
unbounded  riches.  A  plain,  small-patterned  paper,  chintz 
curtains  and  coverings  to  three  or  four  easy-chairs,  a  fine  array 
of  whips,  driving  and  riding,  a  trophy  of  foxes'  brushes, 
gloves,  cigar-cases,  periodicals,  a  dozen  or  so  French  novels  in 
pap»r  covers  littered  on  the  table,  an  album  of  -photographs, 
which  I  close  as  soon  as  I  have  opened  it.  On  the  wall,  pic- 
tures of  many  Derby  winners,  and  several  hunting  sketches ; 
on  the  chimney-piece,  photographs  in  stands  of  A  few  men 
and  many  dogs.  Lord  Rexborough  appears  twice  among  the 
former.  There  is  no  piano,  no  work-basket,  not  a  single  vase 
for  flowers, — indeed,  not  one  object  that  would  reveal  the  sex 
of*  the  usual  occupier.  There  is  nothing  to  tempt  me  to  lin- 
ger, for  the  view  from  the  window  is,  very  characteristically, 
into  the  stable-yard. 

I  feel  a  slight  curiosity  to  see  the  despised  boudoir,  and 
turn  my  steps  in  that  direction.  I  open  the  door  and  pause 
upon  the  threshold.  Certainly  it  is  a  triumph  of  upholstery, 
but  it  looks  cold  and  formal,  as  a  room  docs  that  is  never  lived 
in.  The  walls  are  of  faint,  creamy  pink,  the  cornice  picked 
out  with  silver ;  the  furniture  is  all  ebony  and  silver,  the  cur- 

27* 


318  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

tains  and  couclies  of  blue  velvet  and  satin,  the  oval  mirrors 
framed  in  silver,  and  there  is  a  profusion  of  Sevres  and  Dres- 
den china,  of  brackets  and  lace,  statuettes,  exquisitely-painted 
china  plaques,  and  every  kind  of  "  gimcrack,"  as  Lady  Gwyn- 
eth  expresses  it.  I  draw  aside  the  filmy  lace  curtains,  fine  as 
a  spider's  web,  and  look  out  over  the  blazing  parterres  down 
the  green  slopes  to  the  cool,  still  water  and  the  dark  back- 
ground of  trees  beyond.  It  would  be  a  charming  room  if  it 
were  only  lived  in,  but  now  everything  is  stiff  and  formal, 
arranged  in  the  house-maid's  taste,  each  chair  equidistant 
from  the  other,  so  that  one  cannot  even  sit  down  without  feel- 
ing guilty  of  having  disturbed  the  methodical  precision  of  the 
place. 

Thence  I  wander  into  the  gardens,  which  are  most  lovely, 
and  somehow  manage  to  crawl  through  the  dull  morning.  It 
is  nearly  lunch-time,  and  I  am  thinking  with  unspeakable 
horror  that  I  shall  have  to  sit  down  alone  to  lunch  under  the 
Argus  eyes  of  the  solemn  butler  and  his  gorgeous  satellites, 
when,  to  my  intense  relief,  appears  the  heiress,  hot,  tired,  dis- 
contented. I  greet  her  with  a  more  hearty  welcome  than  I 
could  have  imagined  possible. 

"  What !  back  already  ?"  I  say,  with  lively  interest.  "  Are 
you  tired?" 

"  Yes,"  she  answers,  in  not  the  most  amiable  tone.  "  And 
so  would  you  be,  if  you  had  had  three  hours  of  trudging 
through  stubble-fields  and  turnips,  to  say  nothing  of  having 
been  dreadfully  bitten." 

"  Bitten  !"  I  echo,  in  horror,  only  thinking  of  the  dogs. 

"  I  can  never  go  into  a  corn-field  this  time  of  year  with- 
out being  worried  to  death,"  she  returns,  crossly  ;  and  then  I 
realize  the  nature  of  the  casualties.  "  Those  two,"  she  pro- 
ceeds, "  are  more  like  men  than  women :  nothing  ever  tires 
them.  It  is  very  unladylike,  I  think,  to  be  always  running 
everywhere  after  the  men." 


DIANA'S  STORY.  319 

Poor  heiress  !  she  forgets  that  her  asj^irations  were  the  same, 
though  her  powers  inferior. 

"  They  won't  get  me  out  again  !"  she  continues,  still  a  victim 
to  irritation.  "  I  should  not  have  gone  this  morning,  only" 
(stammering  a  little  over  the  fiction)  "  Colonel  Montagu  over- 
persuaded  me." 

The  over-persuasion  was  couched  in  these  terms :  "  You 
don't  mean  to  say  you  have  an  adventurous  spirit  too?  I'm 
afraid  you'll  very  soon  knock  up  if  you  are  not  used  to  it." 

Lunch  revives  her  spirits,  and  she  becomes  quite  garrulous. 

"  What  shall  we  do  all  the  afternoon  ?"  she  says.  "  We 
must  drive,  I  think.  My  cousin  has  lots  o?  horses  and  car- 
riages in  the  stable  doing  nothing :  we  may  as  well  have  one 
out."     And  I  concur. 

"  Let's  go  into  the  garden,"  she  suggests  next,  and  leads  the 
way  to  a  seat  sheltered  from  the  sun's  rays  by  the  branches  of 
an  elm. 

"  Have  you  ever  met  Colonel  Montagu  before  ?"  she  in- 
quires of  me,  when  we  arc  seated. 

"  Yes,"  I  answer,  briefly. 

"Is  he  not  handsome?"  she  proceeds,  with  enthusiasm. 

"  Yes." 

"  But  wonderfully,  out  of  the  way  handsome  !"  she  per- 
sists.    "  Have  you  ever  seen  a  handsomer  man  ?" 

"  No." 

"  But  you  don't  say  it  as  if  you  meant  it :  indeed,  I  think 
you  only  say  it  to  please  me, — I  mean"  (reddening  consciously) 
"for  the  sake  of  agreeing  with  me." 

"  Not  at  all,"  I  answer,  quietly.  "  I  think  Colonel  Mon- 
tagu quite  the  handsomest  man  I  ever  saw.  But  why  should  I 
say  so  to  please  you?"  (lufjking  at  her  coldly,  and  feeling  my 
voice  harden  in  involuntary  cuntcnipt).  "  Is  ho  anything  par- 
ticular   0  you?     Are  you  going  to  marry  him?" 

"  Well,'  no,"  she  stammers,  with  bashful  confusion  ;  "  not 


320  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

exactly  that.  "What  a  downright  point-blank  question  !  Why" 
(eagerly),  "  have  you  heard  anything  about  it  ?  Has  he  men- 
tioned nie  to  you  at  all  ?" 

"  I  think  he  told  me  that  you  were  staying  here,"  I  answer. 

"  He  was  asked  here  to  meet  me,"  she  e ays,  looking  pleased 
(I  don't  quite  know  at  what).  "  I  met  him  two  or  three 
times  in  town  last  winter,  and  he  said  he  hoped  to  meet  me 
again,  so  my  cousin  asked  him  here.  He  is  so  delightful,  so 
amusing,  has  such  a  perfect  way  of  saying  pretty  things  to 
one:  has  he  not?" 

"  Very,"  I  make  answer,  a  grim  sense  of  the  humor  of  the 
thing  stealing  over  me. 

"  I  may  be  wrong,"  remarks  Miss  Puggins,  regarding  me 
curiously,  "  but  I  have  a  sort  of  idea  that  there  is  not  a  great 
deal  of  love  lost  between  you  two." 

"Yes?"  I  say,  biting  my  lips.  "What  makes  you  think 
that?" 

"  Well,  you  know"  (with  charming  frankness),  "  last  night 
after  you  left  the  room,  we  had  a  long  talk  on  the  sofa  to- 
gether. Lord  Rexborough  and  Gwyneth  were  playing  ecarte^ 
and  I  tried  to  draw  him  out  about  you,  and  he  answered  just 
in  the  same  short  sort  of  way  that  you  did  about  him  just 
now." 

"  Ah  !"  I  say,  unable  to  be  anything  more  than  monosyllabic. 

"  You  are  neighbors,  too,  are  you  not?"  she  continues.  "  Is 
not  Alford  a  lovely  place  ?  I  am  dying  to  see  it.  And  his 
old  mother,  too,  is  so  nice,  I  hear.  What  is  Sir  Hector  like  ? 
Very  cold  and  reserved,  is  he  not  ?  So  different  from  his 
brother,  I  am  told." 

I  want  to  be  good-natured,  but  her  vulgarity  and  curiosity 
seem  to  shut  up  my  conversational  powers  completely.  She 
does  not  appear  to  observe  how  small  a  part  I  play  in  the 
dialogue,  but  rattles  on. 

"  How  do  you  like  Lord  Eexborough  ?     He  is  handsome, 


DIANA'S  STORY.  321 

is  he  not  ?  But  I  think  the  way  Gwyuetli  goes  on  with  him 
is  too  bad  :  don't  you  ?  If  I  were  Harold  I  should  not  like 
it  at  all.  I  believe  they  were  in  love  with  each  other  before 
she  married,  but  he  was  only  Colonel  Blount  then,  and  never 
expected  to  be  Lord  Rexborough ;  but  his  uncle  and  cousin 
were  drowned  out  yachting  the  very  day  of  her  wedding. 
Wasn't  it  funny?  I  rather  wonder  Harold  cares  to  have  him 
here ;  but  he  doesn't  seem  to  mind, — he  is  so  dreadfully  fond 
of  a  lord.  My  papa  is  always  laughing  at  him.  He  hasn't 
any  ridiculous  ideas  like  poor  uncle  ;  and  they  quite  quarreled 
at  one  time  because  papa  wouldn't  change  his  name  to  Des- 
borough.  I  wish  he  had,  you  know"  (frankly),  "  because 
Puggins  is  such  a  horrid  name  :  isn't  it  ?  Only  that,  being  a 
woman,  of  course"  (looking  conscious)  "  I  can  change  it.  The 
worst  of  it  is,  I  have  such  a  horrid  Christian  name, — Sarah  ; 
and  papa  makes  me  so  wild, — he  loiU  call  me  Sally." 

Here  her  confidences  are  postponed  pro  tem.  by  the  an- 
nouncement that  the  carriage  is  at  the  door. 

On  our  return  we  find  the  shooting-party  have  come  in 
before  us. 

"  Such  a  day  we've  had  !"  Curly  tells  me.  "  Bagged  fifty 
brace.  Charlie  Montagu  shot  twenty  out  of  them.  I  always 
thought  those  languid  airs  of  his  were  put  on  :  he  walked 
and  shot  better  than  any  of  us.  Rexborough  got  fifteen  brace. 
I  got  eight ;  but  then  I  lent  my  gun  part  of  the  time  to  Lady 
Audrey  :  she  and  Lady  Gwyn  shot  seven  brace  between  them, 
and  Desborough  one.  I  never  saw  a  fellow  muff  it  so.  He 
missed  forty  birds  if  he  did  one.  The  Jieiress  very  soon 
sloped,  and  jolly  glad  we  all  were  when  she  did,  she  would 
keep  chattering  so.  Isn't  she  sweet  on  Charlie  ?  He's  only 
got  to  ask  and  have  there,  it's  very  plain.  Now  we  are  going 
out  riding,  we  four.  Charlie  is  going  to  stop  at  home  to  spoon 
the  heiress ;  and  you,  poor  Di !  I  don't  know  what  you'ro 
going  to  do.     Why  didn't  you  bring  a  hulnt  ?" 

0* 


322  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"  You  kuow  I  haven't  a  decent  one,"  I  answer,  regretfully. 

"  What  a  bore  !  Well,  good-by  !  I  wish  you  were  com- 
ing." 

"  Do  pray  be  careful  !"  I  cry  after  him,  and,  not  content 
with  my  caution,  I  follow  to  see  him  mount. 

The  riding-party  are  out  on  the  steps,  and  the  non-riding 
paity  are  seeing  them  oif.  Certainly  the  saddle  is  the  most 
advantageous  position  for  Lady  Gwyneth  and  her  sister:  both 
have  perfect  figures,  perfectly  habited,  graceful  seats,  and  un- 
bounded confidence.  Lady  Gwyneth  is  going  to  ride  the 
chestnut,  which  objects  violently  to  being  mounted,  and  in- 
dulges in  a  series  of  buck-jumps  and  capers  after  she  is  on 
liis  back  that  send  my  heart  into  my  mouth.  She  only  laughs 
and  seems  to  enjoy  it. 

"  Your  turn  to-morrow,  Curly,"  she  cries,  laughing,  and  I 
vow  to  myself  that,  if  I  can  prevent  it,  he  shall  not  ride  the 
brute.  All  the  horses  seem  mettlesome,  and  it  is  with  any- 
thing but  a  comfortable  sensation  that  I  watch  them  prancing 
and  clattering  down  the  drive. 

"Have  you  seen  my  hothouses?"  Mr.  Desborough  asks 
me,  as  we  are  left  standing  together  in  the  doorway.  "  Per- 
haps you  would  like  to  look  round."  And  I  assent,  and  walk 
away  with  him. 

"  Won't  you  come  too,  Colonel  Montagu?"  asks  the  heiress; 
and  he  complies  languidly. 

Mr.  Desborough  hurries  me  on  until  we  are  well  in  advance 
of  the  other  couple. 

"  We  mustn't  spoil  sport,  you  know,"  he  says,  in  a  mean- 
ing way  that  does  not  tend  to  increase  my  love  for  him. 

"  Certainly  not,"  I  assent,  wondering  if  the  scorn  I  feel  is 
curling  my  lip. 

"  He'll  be  a  lucky  fellow  if  he  gets  her"  (with  a  backward 
glance).  As  I  am  unable  to  make  a  civil  answer,  I  make  none, 
but  fall  to  admii-ing  the  orchids.     When  we  have  g;one  the 


DIANA'S  STORY.  323 

round  of  tlie  houses,  whose  contents  I  am  able  to  praise  and 
admire  with  great  sincerity,  we  come  upon  the  other  pair 
sitting  together  under  a  tree. 

"I  thought  they  would  not  follow  us  far,"  says  my  host, 
with  a  knowing  smile. 

If  anything,  the  time  goes  more  slowly  here  than  at  home. 
People  say  time  is  so  short ;  and  yet  there  are  sixty  seconds 
in  a  minute,  sixty  minutes  in  an  hour,  twelve  hours  in  a  day, 
— or  rather  fifteen  from  rising  to  going  to  bed.  And,  if  one's 
heart  is  aching  all  the  while,  heaven  knows  that  tittle  of  time, 
a  day,  seems  long  enough. 

The  same  party  at  dinner,  arranged  in  the  same  manner; 
but  to-night  I  have  no  cause  for  anxiety  on  Curly's  account. 
He  is  merry,  but  not  loud,  and  drinks  most  sparingly.  I  listen 
to  my  host's  platitudes,  I  contemplate  the  heiress's  charms,  or 
want  of  them,  I  steal  furtive  glances  at  Colonel  Montagu. 
They  need  not  be  furtive :  he  is  not  likely  to  intercept  one  of 
them,  for  all  dinner-time  he  never  once  looks  in  my  direction. 
He  is  more  cheerful  to-night,  and  talks  to  every  one  except 
me.  My  heart  throbs  indignantly  ;  my  thoughts  go  back  to 
that  night,  barely  four  little  months  ago,  when  in  the  wood  at 
Alford  he  professed  himself  ready  and  willing  to  sacrifice  the 
future  for  love  of  me. 

Dinner  comes  to  an  end  ;  again  I  follow  the  other  trains  to 
the  drawing-room,  again  I  have  a  request,  almost  a  prayer,  to 
make  to  my  hostess.  This  time  it  is  that  she  will  not  let 
Curly  ride  the  chestnut. 

"I  know  he  rides  very  well,"  I  say,  eagerly;  "he  has  great 
pluck  and  a  very  good  seat ;  but,  after  all,  he  has  not  had 

much  practice,  and  if  anything  were  to  happen  to  him  I " 

I  stop  short,  unable  to  dwell  upon  such  a  horrible  possibility. 
Lady  Gwyncth  laughs  me  to  scorn.  I  might  have  guessed  as 
much.  "  Poor  fellow  !"  she  utters,  contemptuously  :  "  it  is  a 
wonder  he  has  a  bit  of  nerve  at  all,  if  he  is  always  being 


324  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

watched  and  warned  and  cautioned.  Something  will  happen 
to  him,  probably,  one  of  these  days ;  it  always  does  to  people 
who  are  coddled  up  and  taken  such  extra  care  of." 

I  choke  down  my  anger  as  best  I  may,  but  my  dislike  of 
Lady  Gwyneth  is  growing  deeply  and  rapidly.  No  power  on 
earth  shall  ever  induce  me  to  come  under  her  roof  again. 

When  the  rest  of  the  party  join  us,  Lord  Rexborough  dniws 
a  low  chair  and  sits  down  deliberately  beside  me. 

"  All  right  to-night,  you  see,"  he  whispers,  with  a  jerk  of 
his  head  in  the  direction  of  Curly.  "  What  a  lucky  fellow  he 
is  to  have  such  a  good  little  sister  to  keep  him  straight !" 

I  dislike  this  man  intensely,  and  I  am  in  a  bitter  humor.  I 
would  rather  offend  him  than  not :  little  care  have  I  of  dis- 
pleasing my  hostess,  as  I  had  at  Warrington. 

"  It  is  very  kind  and  considerate  of  you  to  allude  to  what 
must  naturally  be  such  a  pleasant  subject,"  I  say,  fiercely. 

"  Oh,  hang  it !  I  did  not  mean  to  annoy  you :  you  need 
not  take  one  up  so  very  short.  No  one  thinks  an  iota  worse 
of  a  boy  for  taking  a  little  too  much  once  in  a  way." 

"  Some  people  think  all  the  better  of  him,  I  dare  say,"  I 
retort,  scornfully,  —  "would,  perhaps,  aid  and  abet  him, — 
would  be  rather  glad  to  help  him  sink  down  to  their  own 
level." 

My  adversary  only  looks  amused. 

"  By  Jove  !"'  he  says,  with  a  laugh,  "  that  was  a  nasty  one 
for  me ! — of  course  you  meant  it  for  me." 

I  am  silent. 

"  Charlie  is  making  the  running  with  the  heiress,  eh  ?"  he 
goes  on,  after  a  slight  pause.  "  You  know  I  used  to  think 
you  were  rather  sweet  there  last  winter,  and  I'm  very  glad  to 
see  it  hasn't  come  to  anything.  Serious  intentions  don't  do 
for  people  who  are  both  in  the  same  boat, — '  face  is  their  for- 
tune,'—eh?" 

If  it  did  not  happen  that  at  this  juncture  Lady  Gwyneth 


DIANA'S  STORY.  325 

summons  us  to  a  round  game,  I  should  certainly  rush  away 
and  leave  him  master  of  the  field,  so  utterly'  am  I  repelled  and 
disgusted  by  his  coarseness.  Lady  Gwyneth  evidently  does 
not  share  my  feeling  for  him.  I  might  not  have  noticed  any- 
thing, perhaps,  had  Miss  Puggius  not  suggested  it ;  but  now, 
liaving  the  cue,  it  is  not  very  difficult  to  see  that  her  manner 
to  him  is  different  from  what  it  is  to  any  one  else. 

"  I  don't  want  to  play  to-night,"  he  answers  her.  "  I  am 
going  to  have  a  chat  with  Miss  Carew :  we  are  old  friends, 
you  know"  (laughing). 

"  Come,"  she  says,  persuasively,  in  a  tone  so  far  softer  than 
her  usual  one  that  I  look  involuntarily  to  see  if  Mr.  Des- 
borongh  is  near ;  "do  come :  we  are  all  going  to  play  to- 
night. Miss  Carew,  you  must  join  us,  and  it  shall  be  all  for 
love." 

"  I  could  not  afford  to  lose  any  more  of  Miss  Carew' s  love 
than  I  have  done  already,"  he  answers,  with  a  laugh,  and  then 
he  rises  and  gives  himself  a  shake  like  a  great  black  bear  and 
proceeds  to  the  table.  We  all  play,  and  the  game  is  harmoni- 
ous enough,  excepting  for  a  passage  of  arms  between  Lady 
Gwyneth  and  her  lord.  Although  we  are  not  playing  for 
money,  she  is  betting  what  seems  to  me  very  heavily  on  the 
game. 

"  Like  my  luck  !"  she  says,  crossly,  at  last,  to  Colonel  INIon- 
tagu :  "  that's  fifty  I  owe  you  with  last  night.  I  ought  to 
have  paid  up  this  morning,  but  I  could  not  get  the  money 
out  of  my  generous  proprietor." 

"  I  have  told  you  over  and  over  again.  Lady  Gwyneth," 
responds  Mr.  Desborough,  with  angry  pompousness,  "  that  I 
will  not  pay  your,  gambling-debts.  No  fortune  could  stand 
against  it." 

"Won't  you?"  she  says,  scornfully.  "Then"  (turning  to 
Lord  Rexborough)  "  I  shall  have  to  come  to  you.  Jack.  You 
would  have  paid  them  all  without  a  murmur,  would  you  notj 

28 


32G  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

if  your  uncle  and  cousin  had  only  gone  to  the  bottom  one  little 
day  sooner?" 

I  feel  literally  petrified  by  this  daring  speech.  I  look  up, 
half  expecting  some  dreadful  finale,  but,  beyond  a  scowl  and 
a  dark  ugly  flush,  the  husband  takes  no  notice.  Lord  Rex- 
borough  is  deep  in  the  study  of  his  cards.  Colonel  Montagu, 
with  quick  tact,  makes  a  diversion,  and  we  all  go  on  playing 
as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

This,  I  reflect  to  myself,  is  one  of  the  fruits  of  marriage 
without  love. 


CHAPTER    XXXIV. 


DIANAS    STORY. 


,  There  is  no  shooting  the  next  day.  We  all  go  for  a  picnic 
to  a  ruined  abbey  ten  miles  distant.  The  day  gives  me  nothing 
to  chronicle, — only  more  dull  heart-weariness, — and  I  am  glad, 
ay,  very  glad,  when  it  is  gathered  to  all  the  days  that  have 
gone  before  it.  Colonel  Montagu  and  the  heiress  are  left  to- 
gether in  a  marked  manner ;  they  are  glanced  at  laughingly 
and  spoken  of  aside  as  "a  case."  Curly,  poor  boy,  little 
dreaming  all  the  stabs  he  is  inflicting  upon  me,  takes  especial 
delight  in  chronicling  its  progress  and  speculating  upon  how 
soon  it  will  come  to  a  crisis.  I  am  not  jealous  of  her, — that 
would  be  impossible ;  but  no  woman  who  loves  a  man  can  see 
his  attentions  given  to  another,  however  grudgingly  or  with 
however  mercenary  intent,  and  not  sufi'er  bitter  pain.  He  rides 
the  chestnut  to  the  picnic.  Lady  Gwyneth  laughingly  dares 
him  to  it,  and  he  accepts  the  challenge  without  hesitation. 
"After  all,"  she  says  to  him,  as  we  are  picnicking  among  the 


DIANA'S  STORY.  327 

ruins,  "  you  are  no  roi  fainednt,  as  your  devoted  admirer,  Mrs. 
Huntingdon,  pretended.  You  shot  splendidly  yesterday,  and 
I  could  not  have  managed  the  chestnut  better  myself  than 
you  did  this  morning." 

A  flush  of  pleasure  creeps  over  me  at  her  praise.  I  love 
to  think  he  is  less  indolent  and  languid  than  he  tries  to  appear. 
At  this  moment  my  eyes  fall  on  the  heiress,  who  is  gazing  at 
him  with  a  proud  expression  of  proprietorship,  and  a  feeling 
of  sickening  disgust  comes  over  me. 

The  next  day  they  shoot  again.  Mr.  Desborough  does  not 
go  with  the  rest  of  the  party,  but  volunteers  to  drive  me  out, 
and  I  accept.  I  may  as  well  do  that  as  anything  else.  That 
evening  Lady  Grwyneth  asks  me,  for  the  first  time,  to  sing.  I 
open  the  piano,  and  am  half-way  through  the  second  song, 
when  the  door  opens,  and  Colonel  Montagu  comes  in,  followed 
by  the  others.  He  does  not  seat  himself  beside  the  heiress, 
although  she  moves  her  dress  invitingly,  but  walks  to  the 
embrasured  window  and  stands  in  the  shadow  of  the  curtain. 
His  face  is  turned  towards  me,  but  I  cannot  tell  if  he  is  look- 
ing at  me.  I  know  not  what  impulse  seizes  me,  but  I  leave 
the  song  I  am  singing  unfinished,  and  break  into  one  that 
must  surely  stab  him  to  the  heart,  if  he  has  one.  Ay,  if  he 
has  !  My  whole  soul  goes  out  into  the  last  verse  ;  there  are 
tears  in  my  voice,  in  my  eyes,  in  my  heart,  as  I  sing  it : 

"  Ah,  but  the  days  brought  changes  after, 

Clouds  in  the  happy  skies, 
Care  on  the  lips  that  curved  with  laughter, 

Tears  in  the  radiant  eyes. 
Parted  asunder,  worn  with  grieving, 

Wearily  each  one  prays, 
Ah  for  the  days  beyond  retrieving. 

Ah  for  the  golden  days  !" 

And  when  I  have  sung  the  last  note,  lest  I  should  betray 
myself,  I  rise,  and,  bcfijrc  any  one  has  time  to  speak,  am  out 


328  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

through  the  conservatory,  rushing  with  swift  feet  down  the 
green  slopes  to  the  water.  It  is  a  glorious  night,  just  such  a 
night  as  that  one  the  memory  of  which  brought  all  my  heart 
into  my  voice.  The  deep-colored  moon  is  coming  up  over 
the  stately  trees. 

"A  sudden  splendor  from  behind 

Flushed  all  the  loaves  with  rich  gold  green, 

And,  flowing  rapidly  between 
Their  interspaces,  counterchanged 
The  level  lake  with  diamond  plots 
Of  dark  and  bright." 

I  stand  and  look  down  into  the  shimmering  water,  bitter  and 
miserable  at  heart,  half  wishing  I  could  fling  myself  down  into 
its  deeps  and  let  the  smooth  water  flow  together  again  over 
me.  A  footfall  sounds  behind  me,  and  the  swift  blood  rushes 
to  my  brow  and  neck.  He  has  oome  after  me :  perhaps  he 
still  cares  for  me  ;  perhaps 

I  do  not  move  or  turn  until  a  hand  is  laid  upon  my  arm, 
and  then  I  look  up,  and  with  a  sudden  horrible  revulsion  of 
feeling  meet  the  eyes  of  Lord  Eexborough. 

"  So,"  he  says,  looking  at  me  intently,  "  it  is  not  all  over 
between  you  and  Charlie?" 

For  answer  I  turn  to  fly  from  him ;  but  he  catches  me  by 
the  arm  and  detains  me. 

"  Stop,"  he  says  ;  "  don't  be  in  such  a  hurry." 

"How  dare  you?"  I  cry,  passionately,  struggling  in  his 
grasp  as  a  mouse  might  struggle  in  a  cat's  mouth.  "  Let  me 
go  !" 

"  Don't  hurt  yourself,"  he  says,  looking  amused ;  "  I  am 
awfully  strong,  you  know,  and  I  don't  intend  to  let  you  go 
until  I  have  had  a  little  talk  with  you ;  unless  you  scream, 
of  coui*se,  and  make  a  scene, — which  you  won't,  unless  I  am 
very  much  mistaken  in  you." 

"  It  is  a  fine  use  to  make  of  your  strength,  is  it  not,"  I 


DIANA'S  STORY.  329 

cry,  tauntingly,  "  to  detain  a  woman  against  her  will  by  brute 
force  ?" 

"  Come  quietly,  then,"  he  says.  "  There  !"  pointing  to  a 
seat  close  by;  "I  don't  want  you  to  go  any  further  than 
that.  I  am  not  going  to  use  my  brute  force"  (laughing)  "  to 
carry  you  off.     I  am  only  going  to  ask  you  a  question." 

His  hateful  grasp  is  still  upon  my  arm :  it  is  undignified  as 
well  as  useless  to  struggle  with  him,  and  he  is  right  in  sup- 
posing that  I  am  not  likely  to  cry  out  or  make  a  scene. 

"  Leave  go  my  arm,  then,"  I  say,  with  suppressed  anger. 

He  obeys. 

I  walk  to  the  seat  under  the  trees  and  sit  down. 

"  Now,"  I  inquire,  in  the  most  aggressively  uninviting  tone 
I  can  command,  "  what  do  you  want?" 

He  kneels  with  one  knee  on  the  seat,  not  so  close  as  is  his 
disgusting  wont,  but  at  a  respectful  distance. 

"  I  want  to  know,"  he  says,  speaking  in  rather  a  less  fa- 
miliar and  offensive  way  than  usual,  "  why  you  hate  me  so.  I 
believe  you  look  upon  me  as  only  one  remove  from  the 
devil." 

"  You  are  rather  like  the  picture  of  Apollyon  in  my  old 
Pilgrim's  Progress  at  home,"  I  answer,  without  hesitation.  I 
detest  him.  I  would  say  anything  to  rid  myself  forever  of  his 
hateful  importunities,  and,  though  I  think  him  quite  capable 
of  strangling  me  and  throwing  me  into  the  lake,  I  am  so  sick 
and  weary  and  disgusted  with  everything  I  have  no  room  for 
bodily  fear. 

"  It's  not  because  I'm  like  the  devil  that  you  hate  me,"  he 
says,  thoughtfully:  "that's  never  any  great  drawback  to  a 
man  in  a  woman's  eye,: — particularly  a  good  woman.  Besides, 
you  don't  know  whether  I  am  good  or  bud  :  how  should  you  ? 
As  far  as  that  goes,  Charlie's  quite  as  loose  a  fish  as  I  am,  and 
you  don't  hate  him.  Then,  of  course,  I  haven't  his  soft, 
spoony  ways :  that   takes  all  you   women   so  tremendously. 

28- 


330  FOR   A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

I've  led  a  rougliish  life :  it's  always  been  more  In  my  line  to 
court  hardship  and  danger  than  to  loiter  away  my  time  in 
women's  boudoirs.  But  you  haven't  told  me  yet  why  you 
hate  me." 

"  Why  ?"  I  reply,  with  vindictive  coolness.  "  I  hardly 
know.  It  does  not  seem  worth  while  thinking  about,  but  all 
the  same  I  do  hate  you,  and,  as  you  seem  to  know  it,  I  think 
it  would  be  more  gentlemanlike  of  you  to  leave  me,  and  not 
to  annoy  me  with  your  company." 

"  By  Jove !  you're  a  cool  hand !"  he  says,  looking  at  me 
with  quite  an  admiring  expression.  "  Are  you  not  afraid  of 
saying  such  things  to  me?  You  don't  seem  to  reflect  that 
I  could  drop  you  into  the  water  and  drown  you  in  half  a 
minute." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  I  return  coolly,  "  I  have  thought  of  that,  and 
it  struck  me  as  very  probable  you  might ;  but  I  do  not  mind : 
you  are  very  welcome  ;  I  have  had  about  as  much  of  life  as  I 
care  for." 

"  Poor  little  girl !"  he  utters,  in  a  pitying  tone,  that  jars 
horribly  upon  me.  "  And  so,"  he  continues,  after  a  some- 
what long  pause,  "  you  really  hate  me  ?  Well,  things  don't 
often  conquer  me,  and  I  have  made  up  my  mind  that  you 
shall  like  me  before  you  have  done." 

"  Have  you?"  I  say,  scornfully.  "  I  dare  say  you  are  quite 
equal  to  any  of  Hercules'  tasks,  but  I  think  you  will  find  that 
a  little  beyond  you." 

"  You  are  very  truthful  and  outspoken,  at  all  events,"  he 
answers.  "  Yes,  and  you  are  very  pretty  and  very  plucky  too, 
and,  although  you  do  snub  me  so  smartly,  I  like  you  all  the 
same.  If  you  were  only  civil  to  me"  (laughing),  "  I  believe  I 
should  like  you  a  devilish  deal  too  well  for  my  own  peace  of 
mind.  I  don't  believe  very  much  in  women  as  a  rule,  but  I  do 
in  you.  Perhaps  it's  because  you  are  the  first  woman  who  has 
snubbed  me — since  I  came  into  my  title.    I  dare  say  you  think 


dianA's  story.  331 

it's  swagger,  but  I  give  you  my  word  there  are  precious  few 
women  who  wouldn't  run  into  my  arms  if  I  opened  them, — 
and  asked  them  to  be  Lady  Rexborough,"  he  adds,  with  a 
grim  smile.  "  I  don't  suppose  you  would"  (sitting  down 
beside  me,  but  still  at  a  respectful  distance,  and  eying  me 
curiously). 

"  That  I  would  not !"  I  answer,  heartily.  "  Not  if  you 
were  ten  times  Lord  Rexborough  and  had  a  million  a  year." 

"  You  are  a  strange  little  girl,"  he  says.  "  I  don't  suppose 
you  would.  Certainly,  if  you  could  refuse  Seldon,  who  will 
be  a  duke,  and  is  a  nice,  good-looking  young  fellow  into  the 
bargain,  I  don't  suppose  I  should  stand  much  chance." 

The  moon  is  mounting  higher  in  the  heavens. 

"Dark  blue  the  deep  sphere  overhead, 
Distinct  with  vivid  stars  inlaid, 
Grew  darker  from  that  underllame." 

There  is  no  great  inducement  to  me  to  stay  out  with  this  man, 
whose  presence  is  odious  to  me,  except  that  the  night  is  so 
exceeding  fair,  and  that  I  shrink  from  returning  to  the  draw- 
ing-room after  my  sudden  flight. 

"  Have  you  done  with  me  now  ?"  I  say,  making  as  if  to 
rise. 

"  Do  not  go,"  he  entreats.  "  Stop  with  me  a  few  minutes 
longer,  of  your  own  free  will,  won't  you  ?  I  will  not  force  you 
this  time." 

His  tone  is  so  much  softer  than  usual  that  I  comply. 

"  I  don't  wonder  at  your  thinking  me  a  rough  brute,"  he 
says,  in  a  low  voice.  "  I  am  quite  conscious  of  it  myself;  but 
women  never  seem  to  take  oiFense:  I  should  think  a  great 
deal  better  of  them  if  they  did.  I've  not  had  much  of  a 
chance,"  he  continues,  looking  away  from  me,  "  though, 
heaven  knows,  I  have  often  wished  to  be  better.  You  see,  if 
a  man  is  dragged  up  anyhow,  without  the  influence  even  of 
any  passably  good  woman,  he  gets  rather  rough  notions  about 


332  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

the  sex  ;  and  if,  as  was  my  case,  lie  has  a  mother  who  is  ten 
times  worse  than  none"  (his  voice  getting  low  and  husky), 
"  it's  no  very  great  wonder  if  he  goes  rather  to  the  bad." 

For  the  first  time  in  my  life,  a  kinder  feeling  for  my  com- 
panion comes  over  me. 

"  I  never  was  fond  of  but  one  woman,"  he  goes  on,  pres- 
ently, with  a  gesture  of  his  hand  towards  the  house.  "  I  dare 
say  you've  heard  the  story :  they  wouldn't  let  her  have  me 
because  I  was  poor,  and  God  knows,  poor  little  girl,  hers  isn't 
much  of  a  life  !  If  I  had  known  a  girl  like  you,  say  ten  years 
ago,  it  would  have  been  the  salvation  of  me ;  but  I  don't  sup- 
pose I  shall  ever  do  much  good  now.  There's  no  chance  for 
a  man  in  this  world  or  the  next,  I  believe,  unless  he's  fond  of 
•a  good  woman.  What  can  he  think  of  the  sex  when  he  sees 
them  selling  themselves  day  after  day  to  any  wretch  who  has 
only  money  enough  to  buy  them  ?  Just  look  at  the  contempt- 
ible hound  who  is  master  of  this  place ;  and  yet  she  was  a 
high-spirited  girl,  and  had  a  heart,  or  I  used  to  fancy  she 
had." 

"Is.it  only  women  who  sell  themselves?"  I  ask,  bitterly, 
thinking  of  another  case  in  point. 

"  Upon  my  soul  I  don't  understand  it,"  he  answers,  turning 
to  look  at  me,  and  evidently  reading  my  thoughts.  "  Charlie 
is  a  very  sensitive,  soft-hearted  fellow,  really :  he  would  be 
utterly  miserable  with  that  creature.  He  never  can  marry 
her,  though  it  seems  as  if  he  was  trying  to  screw  himself  up 
to  it  just  now.  A  better  fellow  never  breathed  than  Charlie, 
and,  though  you  hate  me"  (smiling),  "  there  is  nothing  I  should 
like  better  than  to  see  you  two  come  together.  With  money, 
mind ;  not  without." 

"I  don't  hate  you  quite  as  much  as  I  did,"  I  say,  softly, 
stretching  out  a  hand  to  him. 

He  takes  it  and  puts  it  to  his  lips,  and,  for  the  first  time,  I 
do  not  shrink  from  his  touch. 


DIANA'S  STORY.  333 

"  Let  us  make  a  compact !"  he  exclaims,  eagerly  :  "  try  to 
think  more  kindly  of  me,  and  I  will  try  to  be  less  of  a  brute 
when  I  am  with  you." 

Strange  and  most  unlooked-for  result  of  this  forced  inter- 
view :  as  we  walk  gently  up  the  green  moonlit  slopes  towards 
the  house,  I  feel  no  repugnance  to  being  out  alone  with  him 
in  the  quiet  night.  Before  joining  the  rest  of  the  party,  I  go 
to  my  own  room  to  smooth  my  hair :  it  is  in  the  same  corridor 
as  the  morning-room,  and  as  I  pass  the  latter  to  go  down-stairs 
the  door  stands  open  and  a  flood  of  moonlight  streams  across 
the  floor.  I  cannot  resist  looking  out  of  window  on  a  bright 
night,  and  I  pause  and  go  in.  The  window  is  embrasured, 
and  the  curtains  are  half  drawn  some  two  feet  from  the  glass 
itself.  Two  chairs  stand  between,  and  having  gazed  out  once, 
I  find  the  prospect  so  fair  that  I  droji  into  one  and  continue 
my  star-gazing.  I  may  have  been  there  perhaps  five  minutes, 
and  am  thinking  reluctantly  of  leaving  again,  when  a  sound 
of  footsteps  comes  along  the  corridor, — a  light  woman's  step 
and  a  man's  heavy  one.  The  door  is  pushed  open,  and  the 
pair,  whoever  they  may  be,  come  in.  I,  being  hidden  behind 
the  curtains,  am  about  to  come  forth,  having  no  desire  to  play 
eavesdropper,  when  I  am  deterred  by  the  sound  of  a  woman's 
sobs.  I  pause,  irresolute  :  it  is  Lady  Gwyneth.  Then,  comes 
Lord  Rexborough's  deep  voice; 

"For  God's  sake,  don't  cry!  What  can  I  do  for  you? 
My  poor  little  darling!" 

His  voice  is  lioarse,  as  if  with  some  deep  feeling. 

"  I  cannot  bear  it !"  she  sobs  ;  "  my  life  is  torture.  I  hate 
him  worse  and  worse.  His  meanness  and  vulgarity  are  more 
sickening  every  day ;  and,  after  what  I  said  last  night,  ho 
taunted  me  about  you,  and  asked  me  why  I  didn't  go  off  with 
you." 

"  D— n  him  !"  muttered  Lord  Rcxborough,  hoarsely.  "  My 
poor  little  girl,  you'd  better  have  taken  me  and  poverty  after 


334  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

all.  Heaven  knows,  if  it  were  not  for  your  own  sake — my 
life's  of  precious  little  value  to  me  now — I'd  take  you  away 
from  him  this  moment.  But  you'd  repent  it, — a  woman  is 
bound  to,  sooner  or  later ;  and  I  care  too  much  for  you " 

No,  I  will  not  hear  more  I  I  have  been  standing  in  an  agony 
so  far,  not  knowing  how  on  earth  to  get  away ;  but  now  I 
make  a  sudden  rush,  and  am  out  of  the  room,  down-stairs, 
and  in  the  drawing-room,  before  you  could  count  ten. 

"  What  on  earth  is  the  matter  ?"  exclaims  Colonel  Montagu, 
who  is  standing  near  the  door.  "  How  white  you  are !  Have 
you  seen  a  ghost  ?" 

"  Yes — no,"  I  stammer,  dropping  into  a  chair. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  whispers,  bending  over  me  with  bent  brows. 

"  I  saw  Rexborough  go  after  you :  he  has  not  dared " 

(angrily). 

"  No,  no  !"  I  cry,  recovering  myself.  "  Lord  Rexborough 
and  I  are  quite  good  friends  now,  and  we — we  have  been 
admiring  this  lovely  night  together." 

"  Oh !"  (looking  dubiously  at  me).  "  I  don't  know  that 
Lord  Rexborough  is  the  best  companion  in  the  world  for 
moonlight  walks,"  he  adds,  in  a  tone  that  I  might  fancy  jeal- 
ous, if  I  did  not  know  how  utterly  indifferent  he  is  to  me. 

Lady  Gwyneth  does  not  appear  again.  Her  sister  goes, 
after  awhile,  to  find  her,  and,  coming  back,  reports  that  she  is 
tired  and  has  gone  to  bed.  Lord  Rexborough  comes  in  pres- 
ently, looking  perfectly  innocent  and  unconcerned. 

"  You  did  not  show  me  that  flower  in  the  conservatory, 
after  all,"  he  says,  coming  straight  up  to  me,  "  and  I  want  to 
see  it." 

I  obey  his  summons :  something  in  his  eyes  compels  me 
whether  I  will  or  no. 

"  It  was  you  in  the  morning-room,"  he  says,  in  a  low,  hur- 
ried voice,  as  soon  as  we  are  out  of  sight  of  the  others.  "  You 
need  not  say  a  word"  (as  I  am  about  to  protest/) :  "  I  know 


DIANA'S  STORY.  335 

\ 

it  was  pure  accident.     Very  few  women  would  have  been  as 

honest  as  to  go  when  you  did.     I  need  not  ask  you"  (looking 

keenly  at  me)  "  if  our  secret  is  safe  with  you.     I  know  it  is." 

At  this  moment,  as  he  is  bending  eagerly  over  me,  Colonel 
Montagu  strolls  in. 

What  is  to  be  the  nest  phase  in  my  life?  I  think,  horror- 
stricken,  as  I  brush  out  my  hair  that  night.  What  would  not 
I  have  given  to  avoid  being  the  unwilling  sharer  of  this  hate- 
ful secret  1  And  yet,  feeling  as  I  do  in  the  innocence  and 
integrity  of  my  youth  the  fearful  shame  and  wickedness 
attached  to  unlawful  love,  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  cannot  but 
be  sorry  for  them  both.  And,  though  until  now  I  have  never 
had  any  love  for  either  of  them,  I  pray  for  them  on  my  knees 
to-night  as  I  might  have  done  if  she  had  been  my  sister  or  he 
my  brother. 


CHAPTER    XXXV. 


DIANA  S    STORY. 


The  next  day  passes  without  any  incident.  I  am  rather 
more  friendly  with  Lord  Rexborough, — rather  less  so  with 
Lady  Gwyneth.  It  is  evident  that  she  can  scarcely  control 
herself  to  be  commonly  civil  to  me. 

The  day  after  that  is  Sunday.  We  are  later  than  usual :  it 
is  a  quarter-past  ten  before  we  sit  down  to  breakfast,  and 
nobody  looks  as  if  they  meant  going  to  church.  I  inquire 
diffidently  of  my  hostess  if  their  church  is  near. 

"Are  you  thinking  of  going?"  she  asks,  rather  supercil- 
iously. "  Perhaps  you  would  like  a  carriage.  It  is  half  a 
mile  off." 


336  J^OR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"  No,  thank  you,"  I  return.  "  You  will  come,  won't  you?" 
(to  Curly). 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  answers,  undecidedly.  "  We  get  such 
a  jolly  lot  of  it  at  Eton,  that  I  don't  suppose  it  would  do  me 
much  harm  to  stop  away  for  once." 

"  Do  come,"  I  say,  in  a  persuasive  sotto  voce. 

"Go  with  sister,  like  a  dear  good  little  boy,"  interposes 
Lady  Gwyneth,  mockingly.  "  She's  afraid  to  leave  you  alone 
with  me :  I  might  tempt  you  into  some  mischief  And  it's 
much  nicer  hearing  old  Clarke  droning  away,  and  the  charity 
children  singing  out  of  tune  through  their  noses,  than  going 
round  the  stables,  and  perhaps  indulging  in  the  sinful  game 
of  croquet." 

Of  course  that  decides  him,  as  it  is  intended  to  do.  As  I 
wend  my  way  to  church  alone,  I  am  afraid  my  thoughts  are 
not  as  holy  and  charitable  as  they  should  be.  "  Never  mind," 
I  say,  consolingly,  to  my  wounded  spirit ;  "  get  through  to- 
day and  to-morrow,  and  then  your  misery  will  be  over." 

It  is  a  dreary  afternoon.  Colonel  Montagu  is  rowing  the 
heiress  on  the  lake.  Lady  Gwyneth  has  gone  driving  in  her 
phaeton,  and  has  taken  Curly,  principally,  I  believe,  with  the 
amiable  intention  of  annoying  me.  Lord  Rcxborough  and 
Lady  Audrey  have  disappeared  together,  and  I  am  left  to  my 
own  devices.  They  are  rather  dull  ones,  it  must  be  confessed, 
consisting  chiefly  of  ingeniously  tormenting  exercises  of  mind 
and  memory.  When  my  host,  in  pity  of  my  evidently  lonely 
and  neglected  condition,  bids  me  to  a  long  walk  with  him,  I 
acquiesce  gratefully.  His  companionship  may  afford  me  very 
little  pleasure,  but  it  is  in  any  case  better  than  my  own,  and  I 
am  fond  of  walking  for  its  own  sake.  I  endure  patiently  his 
talk  of  the  great  ones  of  the  earth,  of  whom  I  know  something 
more  than  when  I  first  met  him  at  Warrington  last  winter. 
In  the  evening  they  play  cards,  as  usual.  Curly  declines  at 
first,  but  Lady  Gwyneth  laughs  him  out  of  his  scruples. 


DIANA'S  STORF.  337 

"  I  cau't  tliink  how  your  morals  get  on,  Curly,"  she  says, 
bcoflBngly,  "  when  you  have  not  your  sister  to  look  after 
them." 

"  Ah,"  suys  Lord  Rexborough,  championing  me,  to  my  sur- 
prise, "  if  I  had  had  such  a  sister  to  look  after  my  morals,  I 
should  have  been  a  precious  deal  better  fellow  than  I  am. 
Dou't  mind  being  laughed  at,  my  boy ;  and  never  be  ashamed 
to  be  influenced  for  good." 

Lady  Gwyneth  looks  up  at  him,  her  eyes  flashing  with 
angry  surprise. 

"  If  you  think  so  much  of  good  influences,"  she  utters, 
with  a  bitter  sneer,  "  why  don't  you  look  out  for  some  goody 
young  woman  to  convert  you  ?  A  wife  would  be  even  better 
than  a  sister."  ^ 

He  answers  her  by  a  look  which  even  I  can  read.  It  says, 
"  You  know  why  I  do  not ;"  and  she  drops  her  angry  eyes, 
and  the  conversation  too. 

My  boy  playing  cards  on  Sunday  night !  I  do  not  know 
that  it  is  actually  wicked, — far  be  it  from  me  to  condemn  any 
one, — but,  though  we  have  not  had  a  religious  education,  we 
should  as  soon  have  thought  of  staying  away  from  church  on 
a  Sunday  morning,  or  card-playing  on  Sunday  evening,  as  of 
flying. 

Curly  has  not  yet  ridden  the  chestnut. 

"  After  all  your  promises.  Lady  Gwyn,"  he  says,  reproach- 
fully, at  breakfast,  on  Monday  morning. 

"  You  shall  ride  her  to-night,"  she  answers.  "  There  is  my 
hand  on  it."  And  she  extends  it  to  him.  Curly,  blushing  a 
little,  kisses  it. 

"  Bravo,  young  one !"  shouts  Lord  Rexborough,  with  a 
hearty  laugh. 

"  Isn't  he  charming?"  says  Lady  Gwyneth,  laying  a  caress- 
ing hand  upon  his  shoulder.  "  If  I  only  had  him  for  a  month 
P  2'.} 


338  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

without  any  counteracting  influences,  lie  would  be  quite  per- 
fect." 

"  Patience  !"  I  think,  grinding  my  teeth  ;  "  patience  until 
to-morrow."' 

I  make  one  more  effort.  I  follow  her  to  her  den,  think- 
ing grimly  how  my  boy's  bones  (morally)  would  be  lying 
whitening  there  if  she  had  him  for  that  month  she  spoke  of 
alone. 

"  I  entreat  you  once  more,"  I  cry,  earnestly,  "  not  to  let 
him  ride  that  chestnut.     I  know  it  is  not  safe." 

As  usual,  she  makes  me  a  scornful  answer. 

"  It  may  be  nothing  to  you,"  I  return,  hotly,  "  but,  if  any- 
thing happened  to  him,  papa  and  I  should  never  get  over 
it." 

"I  have  given  my  word,"  she  answers,  coldly,  "  and  I  can 
assure  you  I  have  not  the  least  intention  of  breaking  it." 

"  Then,"  I  cry,  passionately,  "  if  anything  happens  to  him, 
it  is  on  your  head !  if  he  is  killed,  you  will  have  murdered 
him !" 

"  Miss  Carew,  you  forget  yourself,"  she  says,  imperiously. 

"  I  shall  never  forget  you,  nor  how  you  have  tried  to  ruin 
Curly,"  I  answer,  bitterly,  and  turn  to  go.  All  day  long  I  am 
tormented  by  fear.  As  four  o'clock  chimes,  the  hour  ap- 
pointed for  the  start,  my  mind  is  at  fever-heat :  at  first  I  think 
of  shutting  myself  in  my  room  and  not  seeing  them  off,  but 
something  impels  me  to  go  down.  The  horses  are  at  the  door. 
Curly,  radiant  with  delight,  is  preparing  to  mount. 

"  You  get  up  first,"  Lady  Gwyneth  says  to  him,  "and  ride 
gently  down  the  avenue.  She  gets  fidgety  if  she  is  kept 
waiting." 

The  chestnut  violently  resists  being  mounted.  She  plunges, 
and  almost  breaks  away  from  the  groom  who  holds  her.  Col- 
onel Montagu  is  standing  close  to  me :  in  an  agony  of  nerv- 
ousness I  clutch  hold  of  his  arm. 


DIANA'S  STORY.  339 

"  Do  not  be  afraid,"  he  says,  kindly.  "  She  will  be  all 
right  when  he  is  on  her  back." 

Will  she?  He  is  in  the  saddle,  and  she  is  bucking, 
plunging,  rearing  with  all  her  might.  I  am  sick  with  terror  ; 
my  legs  fail  me.  I  should  fall  if  Colonel  Montagu  did  not 
put  a  strong  arm  round  me. 

"  Let  her  go  !"  cries  Lady  Gwyneth.    "  Don't  pull  at  her." 

As  the  words  are  in  her  mouth,  the  chestnut  rears  up  on 
end  :  it  seems  to  my  agonized  eyes  as  though  she  will  never 
come  down  again. 

"  Get  him  off!  get  him  off!  oh,  I  pi*ay,  I  entreat  you  !"  I 
cry,  tearing  myself  from  Colonel  Montagu.  "  Oh,  have  mercy 
upon  me !" 

In  my  agony,  I  hardly  know  what  I  am  doing  or  saying. 
I  push  him  violently  forward. 

Curly  is  pale,  but  he  is  still  in  the  saddle. 

"  Better  get  off,  my  boy,"  cries  Colonel  Montagu,  going 
towards  him.  But,  whilst  he  speaks,  the  chestnut  rears  again, 
quivers  in  the  air,  totters,  and  falls  back  with  him  under  her. 
Oh,  my  God  !  She  makes  a  furious  plunge,  but  he — he  is 
lying  dead,  stone  dead,  on  the  ground  before  my  eyes  !  I  am 
beside  him !    Lady  Gwyneth  is  there  too. 

"  Go  away  !"  I  shriek,  dragging  her  off.  "  Do  not  dare  to 
touch  him  !     It  is  you  who  have  murdered  him  !" 

She  goes  without  a  word. 

"  I  will  fetch  the  doctor  myself,"  she  mutters.  "  I  shall 
go  quicker  than  any  one." 

I  fling  myself  down  beside  my  dead  boy,  I  take  his  beauti- 
ful golden-haired  head  in  my  arms,  and  cry,  "  Oh,  how  shall 
I  tell  papa?"  That  is  my  first  thought.  They  are  all  standing 
round  me,  except  Lady  Gwyneth,  and  now  Colonel  ^lontag-u 
bends  down  and  whispers,  "  Let  us  take  him  in  ;"  and  I  move 
aside,  and  he  and  Lord  Rexborough  take  up  my  boy  tenderly, 
and  I  follow  them  to  the  house. 


340  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"  Best  take  him  up-stairs  at  once,"  they  whisper  to  each 
other,  and  they  carry  him  up  and  lay  him  dn  his  own  bed. 
And  all  this  time  I  am  thinking  with  dull  agony  of  papa. 
IIow  will  he  bear  it? — how  shall  I  comfort  him? — who  will 
break  it  to  him  ?  And  in  my  pain  I  turn  to  the  man  I  have 
loved. 

"  Will  you  go  to  him  ?"  I  say,  with  trembling,  faltering 
lips.  "  Will  you  tell  him  ?  You  will  not  mind  the  trouble, 
will  you  ?  And,  oh !  break  it  to  him  gently  ;  do  not  tell  him 
all  at  once  ;  it  would  kill  him  !" 

"  Of  course  I  will  go,  this  very  instant,"  he  says.  "  Oh, 
my  poor  child"  (his  blue  eyes  growing  wet  with  pity),  "  try 
and  bear  up.  If  I  could  only  make  you  know  how  grieved  1 
am  for  you !" 

"  Yes,  I  know,  I  know,"  I  answer,  hastily.  "  But  do  not 
wait ;  go  at  once,  pray  go." 

He  goes,  and  Lord  Rexborough  and  I  are  left  alone. 

"  We  cannot  tell  till  the  doctor  comes,"  he  whispers, 
kindly.  "I've  often  seen  fellows  look  like  death  with  concus- 
sion of  the  brain." 

I  shake  my  head.  "  He  is  dead,"  I  say, — "  dead."  I 
have  taken  up  my  post  at  the  bed-head  to  watch  the  beautiful 
marble  fiee  that  not  ten  minutes  ago  was  flushed  with  health 
and  pleasure.  A  sort  of  stony  feeling  creeps  over  me.  I  feel 
as  though  it  were  not  I,  but  some  other  woman,  who  is  look- 
ing on  at  me,  and  to  whose  voice  I  am  listening.  I  have  no 
tears,  and  in  a  moment  of  time  my  thoughts  are  traveling 
back  all  the  years  that  papa  and  I  have  watched  over  our  boy, 
of  the  sacrifices  we  have  made,  the  hopes  we  have  indulged, 
the  love  with  which  we  have  loved  him,  the  pride  we  have 
had  in  him.  I  take  my  eyes  off  the  white  lovely  face  and 
turn  them  to  Lord  Rexborough's  dark  one.  It  is  furrowed 
with  pain :  even  his  eyes  have  tears  in  them  at  this  piteous 
sisht. 


DIANA'S  STORY.  341 

"Poor  lad!  poor  little  girl!"  be  murmurs,  in  a  broken 
voice. 

"  I  told  ber  so,"  I  bear  myself  say,  in  a  cold,  quiet  voice ; 
"  I  told  ber  sbe  would  be  bis  murderer.  Sbe  would  bave 
liked  to  ruin  bim  body  and  soul,  but  sbe  bas  only  killed  bis 
body." 

"  Husb  !"  be  answers  me,  in  a  pained  wbisper.  "  Sbe 
meant  no  barm,  and,  poor  little  woman,  sbe  will  suffer  most 
awfully  at  tbis." 

"  Sbe  suiFer  !"  I  ecbo,  in  cold  scorn.  "  Wbat  is  it  to  ber? 
wbat  will  it  be  to  ber  in  a  week's  time  ?  And  papa  and  I" 
(my  voice  breaking  into  a  wail),  "  wbat  sball  we  do  witbout 
bim  all  tbe  rest  of  our  lives?"  And  as  I  tbink  of  bis  bonny 
face  and  bis  ringing  laugb  I  break  down  and  fall  into  an 
agony  of  weeping.  I  fling  myself  on  my  knees  by  my  dead 
boy  and  call  on  bim  to  speak  to  me.  I  cry  aloud  to  God  to 
take  pity  upon  me,  and  all  tbis  time  tbe  rougb,  coarse  man 
whom  I  bave  loatbed  is  standing  over  me,  stroking  my  bair 
tenderly  and  bringing  bis  loud,  barsb  voice  down  to  a  sooth- 
ing wbisper  as  soft  as  a  woman's.  But  I  heed  bim  not ;  tbe 
flood-gates  of  my  tears  are  unloosed ;  I  am  sobbing  out  all  my 
passionate  love  and  pity  of  tbe  young  life  crushed  out  in  its 
fair  dawn.  I  am  praying  frantically  for  a  miracle  to  bring  my 
dead  boy  back  to  life.  There  is  a  sound  of  steps  in  tbe  corri- 
dor, and  I  look  up  and  see  a  stranger  entering  hurriedly.  He 
comes  up  to  tbe  bed,  looks  at  my  boy,  takes  up  bis  lifeless  baud, 
and  I  see  his  face  contract. 

"  He  is  dead !"  I  mutter,  and,  as  I  speak,  Lady  Gwyneth, 
with  ashen  face,  comes  towards  tbe  bed. 

I  start  to  my  feet. 

"  Go  away  1"  I  whisper,  hoarsely :  "  do  not  dare  to  come 
and  look  at  your  work  !  Remember,  it  was  you  who  killed 
him  !  be  would  be  alive  now  if  it  were  not  for  you  !"  And, 
so  saying,  I  push  ber  violently  towards  the  door. 

29* 


342  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

But  the  strain  on  my  nerves  is  too  great,  and  I  full  back 
senseless  into  Lord  Rexborough's  arms.  When  I  come  to 
myself,  I  am  lying  partially  undressed  on  my  own  bed,  a  kind, 
comely-looking  woman  is  standing  on  one  side  of  me,  and  on 
the  other  the  doctor, — I  suppose  it  is  the  doctor. 

"  Thank  God,  she's  come  to,  poor  dear  young  lady  !"  says 
the  woman's  voice. 

I  stare  vaguely  from  one  to  other  of  them  :  I  cannot  make 
out  what  they  are  doing,  nor  how  I  have  come  here.  My 
eyes  involuntarily  close  again,  and  I  hear  them  whispering 
over  me,  and  feel  a  warm  hand  on  my  wrist.  Have  I  been  ill  ? 
My  brain  begins  to  make  an  effort ;  I  have  seen  the  man's 
face  before ;  and  then  all  at  once  consciousness  comes  back, 
and  I  remember  all.     I  start  up,  crying,  wildly, — 

"  Is  he  dead?     Has  papa  come?" 

"  No,  no ;  he  is  not  dead,"  the  doctor  answers,  in  a  cheery 
voice.     "  Try  not  to  agitate  yourself." 

"  Not  dead  !"  I  utter,  looking  at  him  as  if  to  read  him 
through  and  through  ;  "  not  dead  !     Will  he  live  ?" 

The  doctor  looks  away. 

"  We  must  hope  for  the  best,"  he  says,  in  a  low  voice. 

I  sink  back  on  the  pillow  with  a  groan. 

"  Oh,  poor  papa  !  poor  papa  !"  I  mutter.  "  Who  is  with 
him?"  I  ask,  presently.  "Not  she!"  (wildly)  "  I  will  not 
have  her  near  him.  I  must  get  up  and  go  to  him,"  and  I  try 
to  stagger  up. 

"  Wait  a  little,"  says  the  doctor,  soothingly.  "  You  shall 
go  presently :  you  can  do  no  good  now." 

"Why  are  you  not  there,  if  you  say  he  is  alive?"  I  cry, 
with  a  searching  look  at  him. 

"  Because  you  wanted  me  more  for  the  moment.  They 
would  have  sent  for  me  if — if  I  could  have  been  of  any  use." 

"  But  you  must  be  of  use,"  I  say,  feverishly,  "  if  he  is 
alive.     He  is  not !     You  are  trying  to  deceive  me  1" 


DIAXA'S  STORY.  343 

"  He  was  alive  twenty  minutes  ago,"  he  answers ;  "  but 
you  can  do  without  me  now,  and  I  will  go.  Ptemember, 
though,  if  you  want  to  be  of  any  use,  if  you  want  to  nurse 
him,  you  must  not  agitate  yourself:  you  must  try  and  control 
your  gi-ief  as  much  as  possible.  Try  and  bear  up."  And  he 
pats  my  hand  kindly. 

"  Help  me  to  dress,"  I  say  to  the  housekeeper,  whom  I 
recognize  now ;  and  she  obeys,  with  many  kind  homely  words 
of  sympathy,  which  almost  make  me  cry  again,  only  that  I 
have  made  up  my  mind  for  my  boy's  sake  to  be  strong.  She 
helps  me  along  the  corridor,  for  I  still  feel  weak  and  giddy,  to 
the  room  which  is  to  witness  the  parting  of  my  darling's  spirit 
or  his  resurrection  back  to  life.  As  I  enter.  Lady  Gwyneth 
comes  towards  me.  She  is  still  in  her  habit ;  her  eyes  are  red, 
the  tears  are  streaming  down  her  cheeks. 

"  Do  not  send  me  away !"  she  cries,  in  low,  passionate  en- 
treaty. "  If  you  knew  how  awfully  I  am  suffering,  you  would 
not  harden  your  heart  against  me.  Blame  me,  hate  me,  but 
let  me  stay  I" 

I  shrink  from  her,  but  my  anger  has  died  away  in  my  over- 
whelming grief,  so  I  let  her  stay.  She  kneels  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  bed  from  me,  her  hands  buried  in  her  fice,  looking 
up  once  and  again  at  the  marble  beauty  that  never  stirs  nor 
gives  the  faintest  sign  of  life.  The  doctor  takes  up  his  post 
at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  The  light  wanes  and  dies ;  in  the 
mirror  opposite  the  window  I  can  see  his  glorious  death. 
Death !  oh,  ghastly  comparison,  for  the  sun  will  rise  to-mor- 
row, and  my  boy  ! — ah,  he  may  be  where  there  is  no  sunrise 
nor  sunset,  where  there  are  no  more  tears,  in  the  radiant 
blessedness  of  God's  eternal  presence.  And  if  I  were  sure 
of  his  beatitude  (the  thought  steals  over  me)  could  I  be  con- 
t  nt  to  do  without  ray  boy  again  in  this  world?  could  I  say, 
"  It  is  well"  ?     No,  no  !  my  earth-clogged  soul  rebels. 

"  0  Lord,  only  give  him  back  to  us  !"  I  cry.     "  Only  give 


344  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

liiin  back  ;  we  caunot  spare  liim  I"  I  am  roused  by  the  doctor 
asking  in  a  whisper  for  a  light.  Lady  Gwyneth  rises  softly, 
and,  going  out,  returns  with  one.  All  our  eyes  turn  to  the 
bed,  but  there  is  no  change.  We  resume  our  watch.  Pres- 
ently there  is  a  sound  of  wheels:  my  heart  throbs  violently, 
T  tremble  in  every  limb.  Lady  Gwyneth  goes  out,  followed 
by  the  doctor,  and  we  two  wait  alone  for  our  father's  coming. 
It  seems  an  eternity  until  I  hear  his  footsteps.  At  last  I  catch 
the  sound :  he  opens  the  door,  he  is  in  the  room.  Is  it  his 
fiice  that  looks  at  me  so  wan  and  blanched  ?  He  comes  towards 
the  bed  on  which  all  his  hopes  are  dying.  There  are  moments 
of  supreme  agony  as  well  as  supreme  bliss  in  which  speech 
plays  no  part.  Silently  we  put  our  arms  round  each  other  in 
one  convulsive  sympathy  of  pain  ;  then  he  throws  himself 
down  beside  the  bed  and  takes  the  dear  white  lifeless  hand  in 
his.  His  whole  frame  is  convulsed  with  sobs ;  the  scalding 
tears  trickle  through  his  fingers.  Women's  tears  are  of  little 
account ;  we  weep  for  a  petty  mortification  or  for  misplaced 
sentiment ;  but  a  man's  tears  are  like  his  heart's  blood.  Plere 
is  the  end  of  his  hopes,  of  his  sacrifices,  of  his  untiring  love ; 
here  lies  the  last  of  his  race,  his  darling,  dying,  and  he  is  pow- 
erless to  stay  the  King  of  Terrors  for  one  little  hour,  to  win 
one  last  look  of  recognition  from  the  loving  blue  eyes.  If  I 
live  to  be  a  hundred,  shall  I  ever  forget  the  impotent  agony 
of  that  moment?  All  the  pain  of  losing  my  darling  is  merged 
in  anguish  at  my  father's  grief.  "  Help  me,  0  God,  to  con- 
sole him  !"  I  pray,  over  and  over  again,  in  an  agony  of  inten- 
sity. Then  I  creep  on  my  knees  beside  him,  and  lift  one  of 
his  hands  from  his  face  and  put  it  round  my  neck,  crying,  from 
no  jealousy  or  self-seeking,  God  knows  !  "  Oh,  darling  father, 
you  have  me  still !"  He  opens  his  arms,  and  I  pillow  my  head 
on  his  breast,  and  the  tears  of  our  bitter  anguish  for  our  boy 
flow  together. 

Presently  the  doctor  comes  in  again  softly.    Papa  conquers 


DIANA'S  STORY.  345 

his  weakness,  and  speaks  in .  a  firm  voice.     "  Is  there  any 
hope?" 

"  While  there  is  life  there  is  hope,"  he  answers,  tritely.  But 
he  turns  away  and  sighs.  All  night  long,  papa  and  I  keep 
our  vigil  beside  our  wrecked  hopes ;  neither  of  us  tries  to  per- 
suade the  other  to  leave  the  bedside  or  to  take  rest :  we  under- 
stand each  other  too  well  for  that.  Often  during  the  night 
hushed  footsteps  come  to  the  door,  and  my  quickened  ear 
catches  the  voice  of  Lady  Gwyneth  or  Colonel  Montagu  or 
Lord  Rexborough.  Sometimes  they  come  stealthily  in  and 
look  at  the  beautiful  lifeless  form  and  go  out  again  sighing. 
I  hear  Lady  Gwyneth  whisper  to  papa  that  she  has  telegraphed 
to  London  for  an  eminent  physician,  and  that  he  will  be  here 
by  the  first  train  in  the  morning.  The  night  crawls  on,  and 
we  watch  our  boy,  papa  and  I,  one  each  side  of  the  bed ; 
sometimes  we  start  when  the  flickering  light  or  our  overstrung 
nerves  make  us  fancy  he  has  moved.  The  long  night  goes ; 
the  chill  gray  dawn  succeeds  it.  Colonel  Montagu  comes  in 
softly  and  wraps  a  shawl  round  my  cold  shoulders.  The  dawn 
grows  strong ;  the  red  sunlight  creeps  up  the  sky ;  it  waxes 
broad  and  hot ;  and  yet  he  has  never  stirred.  We  look  fear- 
fully at  each  other — papa  and  I — as  the  strong  light  shows  us 
the  waxen  face.  Is  he  gone  from  us?  our  eyes  ask  each  other, 
with  mute  terror.  But  the  doctor  says,  "  No,  there  is  still 
hope." 


p* 


346  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 


CHAPTER    XXXVI. 

Diana's  story. 

With  tlie  morning  the  great  physician  is  here.  Before  his 
coming  we  had  looked  forward  to  it  with  an  intense  eagerness  : 
we  had  fancied  he  would  make  some  speedy  change ;  in  our 
hearts  we  had  thought  slightingly  of  the  country  doctor's 
skill.  But  when  he  arrived  he  could  do  no  more :  he  could 
bring  no  color  to  the  white  face,  no  animation  to  the  rigid 
form.  Only  one  thing  he  could  do  to  give  us  comfort,  and 
that  he  did.  He  told  us  of  other  cases  he  had  known  where 
life  had  almost  seemed  extinct,  where  the  patient  had  lain  for 
four-and-twenty  hours  without  sign  or  movement  and  had  yet 
recovered  and  been  none  the  worse  for  the  accident. 

"  And  sometimes,"  says  papa,  in  a  husky  voice,  looking 
scai'chingly  in  the  great  autocrat's  face,  "  more  often  still,  I 
suppose  it  terminates — fatally."  He  can  hardly  bring  himself 
to  the  utterance  of  that  dire  word. 

"  We  must  hope  for  the  best,"  is  the  answer.  Even  when 
the  great  oracle  uncloses  its  lips  at  such  a  time,  its  utterance 
can  but  be  trite  and  commonplace. 

And  then  he  consults  and  agrees  courteously  with  his  coun- 
try colleague  as  to  what  is  to  be  done  under  various  contin- 
g(!ncies,  takes  us  by  the  hand  with  grave  and  kindly  sympathy, 
bids  us  be  of  good  heart,  and  goes ;  and  with  him  goes  all  of 
hope  and  courage  which  that  fearful  night's  vigil  had  left  us. 

But,  after  all,  our  boy  is  spared  to  us.  He  comes  back 
slowly  from  those  dark  portals  on  whose  dread  threshold  he 
had  set  foot,  whose  gates  had  so  wellnigh  closed  behind  him. 
When  I  first  look  at  myself  in  the  glass  after  that  awful  time. 


DIANA'S  STORY.  347 

I  expect  to  see  my  hair  white.  I  am  astonished  to  find  it  still 
its  own  natural  dark  brown;  When  our  dear  invalid  is  able 
to  be  moved,  with  what  utter  and  intense  joy  do  I  leave  behind 
me  the  house  where  I  have  spent  the  most  grievous  days  of 
my  life !  Lady  Gwyneth  has  redeemed  herself  very  much  in 
my  eyes  by  her  untiring  care  of  and  solicitude  for  Curly : 
she  has  shared  our  night-watches  and  been  more  tender  and 
womanly  than  I  could  have  believed  possible.  As  for  Lord 
Rexborough,  my  dislike  of  him  has  merged  into  warm  friend- 
ship ;  and  for  Colonel  Montagu, — ah,  I  cannot  speak  of  him  ! 
— only  I  think,  proudly  and  gladly,  though  he  may  never 
more  be  aught  to  me,  that  the  idol  I  set  up  to  worship  was 
not  unworthy. 

In  what  strange  ironies  fate  delights.  Whilst  Curly  lay 
between  life  and  death,  a  letter  came  to  papa  announcing  that 
our  mother's  only  brother  had  died  abroad,  leaving  to  Curly 
and  me  each  three  hundred  a  year,  to  be  at  our  own  absolute 
disposal  from  the  time  of  his  death,  not  waiting  for  our  coming 
of  age.  When  our  darling  lay  so  near  the  laud  of  shadows, 
this  news,  that  at  any  other  time  would  have  seemed  so  un- 
utterably good  and  joyful,  struck  on  us  like  some  cruel  mock- 
ery ;  but  now  that  he  is  growing  strong  again,  and  we  have 
the  promise  that  he  wjll  in  all  probability  be  none  the  worse 
for  his  accident,  our  new  riches  are  a  delightful  theme.  Curly 
and  I  never  weary  of  talking  about  our  great  possessions  and 
laying  them  out  in  imagination.  The  presents  we  will  buy 
for  papa,  the  benefits  that  he  shall  derive  from  the  newly- 
acquired  wealth  that  seems  so  enormous  in  our  eyes, — these 
are  subjects  of  which  we  never  weary,  which  serve  to  beguile 
most  delightfully  the  tedious  period  of  convalescence. 

September  has  gone,  October  is  here,  and  there  is  talk  of 
Curly  going  back  to  Eton.  Papa  and  he  have  gone  for  a  drive 
in  the  old  pony-carriage,  and  I  am  dawdling  away  the  last 
britiht  hours  of  the  short  afternoon  in  our  old-fashioned  garden. 


348  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

The  last  few  days  have  been  so  bright  and  hot,  they  might 
almost  cheat  us  into  the  belief  that  summer  was  yet  tarrying 
with  us,  but  for  the  unmistakable  signs  around  of  the  year's 
decay.  It  is  not  very  long  after  five  o'clock,  but  Phoebus  is 
driving  his  golden  chariot  apace  down  the  sky  towards  the  long 
belt  of  firs  yonder.  Here  is,  not  actually  but  very  nearly,  the 
last  rose  of  summer  left  blooming  alone  before  my  eyes,  and 
the  fair  summer  blossoms  have  given  way  to  the  great,  scent- 
less, ugly  autumn  flowers, — coarse  dahlias,  flaming  nasturtiums, 
gaudy  zinnias,  gorgeous  gladioli,  and  last,  but  not  least,  big 
staring  sunflowers.  It  is  a  conceit  more  pretty  than  truthful, 
I  fancy,  that 

"  The  sunflower  turns  to  her  god  when  he  sets, 
The  same  look  that  she  turned  when  he  rose." 

In  the  present  instance,  at  all  events,  the  sun  god  is  hurrying 
fast  to  his  setting,  and  his  great  ugly  satellites  are  turning 
their  broad  backs  upon  him  in  the  most  unblushing  manner. 
I  am  sitting  on  the  grass,  book  in  hand,  gazing  meditatively 
up  the  long  green  vista  that  divides  the  flower-rows  and  the 
two  lines  of  crooked,  prolific  apple-trees.  They  are  weighed 
down  with  much  store  of  fruit,  crimson,  gold,  green,  and 
russet,  and  on  them  and  through  their  narrow  leaves  to  their 
twisted  trunks  the  red  rays  play  warmly.  My  book  does  not 
occupy  a  great  deal  of  my  attention :  it  is  a  very  old  one,  and 
I  have  read  it  many  a  time  before.  Its  quaint  old-fashioned 
language  amuses  me.  I  cannot  help  thinking  Sir  Charles 
Grandison  a  bit  of  a  prig,  for  all  he  is  a  very  fine  and  noble- 
hearted  gentleman,  and  Harriet  Byron's  naive  vanity  in  the 
repetition  of  the  extravagant  praises  of  her  lovers  makes  me 
smile.  After  all,  it  must  be  superhumanly  difficult  to  write 
one's  own  story  without  appearing  either  utterly  uninteresting 
or  disgustingly  conceited.  I  open  the  book  at  random,  and 
read, —  / 


DIANA'S  STORY.  349 

"  I  twitched  the  string  just  in  time;  the  coach  stopt.  'Mr. 
Orme,'  said  I.  '  How  do  you  ?  Well,  I  hope  ?  How  does 
Miss  Orme?' 

"  I  had  my  hand  on  the  coach  door.  He  snatched  it.  It 
was  not  an  unwilling  hand.  He  pressed  it  with  his  lips. 
'  God  be  praised,'  said  he  (with  a  countenance — oh,  how  al- 
tered for  the  better  !)  'for  permitting  me  once  again  to  behold 
that  face, — that  angelic  face,'  he  said. 

"  '  God  bless  you,  Mr.  Orme,'  said  I ;  '  I  am  glad  to  see  you. 
Adieu.' 

"  The  coach  drove  on.     '  Poor  Mr.  Orme,'  said  my  aunt. 

"  '  Mr.  Orme,  Lucy,'  said  I,  '  don't  look  so  ill  as  you  wrote 
he  was.' 

"  '  His  joy  to  see  you,'  returned  she.  '  But  Mr.  Orme  is 
in  a  declining  way.'  " 

My  reading  is  here  interrupted  by  the  vision  of  a  white 
figure  flitting  to  and  fro  among  ihe.  shrubs,  evidently  on  its 
way  to  me.  I  discern  it  to  be  Sally  in  her  light  cotton 
gown. 

''  What  is  it?"  I  say,  as  soon  as  she  comes  within  hail. 

"  If  you  please,  miss,"  she  responds,  at  the  top  of  her  voice, 
"  It's  Sir  'Ector  Montagu." 

For  a  moment  my  mind  conjures  up  a  vision  of  the  dead 
old  tyrant.  I  could  hardly  be  much  more  disconcerted  by  a 
visit  from  him  than  from  his  successor. 

"  I  will  come,"  I  say,  picking  myself  up  slowly  from  the 
grass  with  a  fluttering  heart,  and  walking  housewards  with 
most  reluctant  and  unwilling  steps.  His  back  is  turned 
towards  me  as  I  enter  the  room.  When  he  faces  me,  I  can 
see  that  he  is  altered,  and  that  he  looks  darker,  thinner,  more 
haggard  than  he  used.  His  greeting  is  a  strange  one :  he 
does  not  give  me  the  usual  commonplace  salutation,  but  takes 
me  by  the  hand  (unlike  Miss  Byron's,  it  is  an  unwilling  one), 
and  says, — 

30 


350  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"  You  once  oflfered  me  your  fiienclsliip,  aud  I  refused  it. — 
rather  ungraciously,  I  fear.  I  have  come  to-day  to  ask  you 
for  it." 

And  then  he  goes  on  abruptly  to  speak  of  Curly's  accident. 

"  I  did  not  hear  of  it  until  some  time  after  it  happened," 
he  says. 

Then  I  ask  him  about  his  mother. 

"  It  is  on  her  account  I  am  here  to-day,"  he  answers. 
"  Without  such  an  excuse  I  should  have  been  diffident  of 
coming.  My  poor  mother  is  so  low-spirited  and  dejected, — 
she  cannot  at  all  get  over  my  father's  death.  Is  it  not  won- 
derful," he  breaks  out,  "  how  these  good  women  will  deceive 
themselves  into  thinking  when  a  man  is  dead  that  he  possessed 
every  virtue  under  heaven  !  Far  be  it  from  me,"  he  adds, 
hastily,  "  to  breathe  one  unkind  word  of  those  that  are  gone  : 
death  makes  all  sacred ;  but  it  does  seem  strange." 

"  Lady  Montagu  was  always  devoted  to  Sir  Hector,"  I 
answer.  "  I  felt  sure  she  would  take  his  death  dreadfully  to 
heart." 

"  She  is  always  reproaching  herself  with  not  having  done 
enough  for  him  or  made  greater  efforts  to  please  him.  She  is 
quite  morbid  on  the  subject.  I  think  she  remembers  every 
time  she  was  a  minute  late  for  dinner,  and  is  inconsolable 
because,  since  her  illness,  she  did  not  come  down  to  make  his 
breakfast.  The  doctors  recommend  change  ;  but  no  induce- 
ment will  get  her  to  leave  the  place.  She  fancies  that  if  you 
would  only  come  over  and  spend  a  little  while  with  her  it 
would  cheer  her  up  and  make  her  a  different  person.  Cannot 
you  come?"  he  adds,  eagerly;  then,  as  he  sees  how  I  shrink 
from  the  thought,  "  You  need  have  no  fear  about  me"  (in  a 
pained  voice)  :  "you  will  be  sacred  from  any  annoyance  from 
me.  Indeed,  if  it  would  make  you  happier,  I  will  go  away 
altogether." 

"There  is  no  need  for  that,"  I  say,  reluctantly,  "and  1 


DIANA'S  STORY.  351 

should  be  glad,  most  glad,  to  go  to  Lady  Montagu,  if  I  could 
really  be  of  any  use  to  lier ;  but " 

"But  what?" 

"  Curly  is  still  here,"  I  say.  "  I  could  not  possibly  leave 
home  until  he  is  gone,  and  then  I  shall  hardly  like  to  leave 
papa,  he  will  feel  his  loss  so  dreadfully." 

But  when  papa  retui'os,  a  few  minutes  later,  he  waruiiy 
seconds  Hector's  request,  and  utterly  pooh-poohs  all  idea  of 
not  being  able  to  spare  me.  And  so,  most  reluctantly  on  my 
part,  it  is  settled  that  Sir  Hector  (how  strange  his  new  title 
sounds !)  shall  send  the  carriage  for  me  the  week  but  one 
following.  Papa  invites  him  to  stay  and  dine.  He  accepts, 
apparently  nothing  loath.  His  face  seems  to  grow  less  hag- 
gard, the  unfrequent  smile  comes  to  his  lips,  and  he  becomes 
quite  cheerful.  For  one  moment  before  he  leaves  we  are 
alone  together. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid  to  come,"  he  whispers,  hurriedly.  "  I 
swear  not  to  vex  you  by  any  allusion  to  the  past.  We  will  be 
friends,  nothing  more"  (with  a  sigh).  And  then  papa  retui'ns, 
and  he  bids  me  good-by. 

So  it  happens  that  once  again  I  go  to  Alford, — to  the 
house  where,  in  one  little  day,  all  my  future  was  spoiled  and 
marred.  Lady  Montagu  is  sadly  altered :  the  delicate  color 
in  her  cheeks  has  faded  to  a  waxen  hue,  her  eyes  are  dim 
with  much  weeping.  She  greets  me  with  all  her  old  kind- 
ness, but  the  very  sight  of  me  affects  her  and  brings  tears  to 
her  eyes. 

"  Do  not  mind  me,  my  dear,"  she  says,  tremulously. 
"  Everything  now  brings  back  my  dreadful  loss." 

How  many  a  devoted  husband,  I  wonder,  has  been  mourned 
far  less  than  the  cruel,  Selfish  old  tyrant  of  Alford  !  She  talks 
much  of  him :  indeed,  it  seems  the  only  theme  on  which  she 
cares  to  speak.  I  list(3n,  with  scant  patience,  inwardly,  to  her 
self-reproaches,  knowing  how  utterly  unmerited  they  are ;  but 


352  FOR   A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

it  is  useless  to  try  to  persuade  her  that  she  has  not  failed  in 
•wifely  duty  and  consideration  to  her  lamented  lord.  There 
is  a  great  alteration  in  the  manners  and  customs  of  the  house, 
— far  less  stat«  and  a  great  deal  more  comfort.  We  dine,  not 
in  the  great  cold  banqueting-hall,  but  in  a  cosy  little  dining- 
room,  furnished  simply,  but  in  the  most  perfect  taste,  from 
the  many  oaken  treasures  of  the  hall.  There  is  no  unneces- 
sary parade  of  gold  and  silver  plate,  and  we  are  waited  upon 
by  Simkins  and  one  footman,  who  retire  when  they  have 
served  us,  and  are  summoned  by  a  hand-bell.  Hector's 
manner  to  his  mother  almost  makes  me  love  him :  it  is  a 
mixture  of  the  most  tender  kindness  and  respect.  She  may 
transgress  as  much  as  she  chooses — and  I  am  bound  to  say  she 
does — the  rule  of  punctuality,  without  a  look  or  a  hint  from 
him.  If  his  soup  is  cold  through  waiting  for  her,  he  makes 
no  remark.  What  a  blessed  change  his  rule  must  be  for  the 
servants !  But,  though  he  is  so  considerate,  he  lacks  no  dig- 
nity, and  they  run  with  far  more  alacrity  for  love  of  him  than 
they  did  for  fear  of  his  father.  His  considerate  thoughtful- 
ness  for  his  mother  can  be  illustrated  by  one  example.  He 
has  given  the  servants  strict  orders  not  to  address  him  as  Sir 
Hector  before  his  mother :  in  her  presence  he  is  always  plain 
sir,  as  of  old.  For  my  own  part  I  am  glad,  for  I  can  never 
hear  the  name  and  title  without  an  unpleasant  reminiscence 
of  its  former  owner. 

The  morning  after  my  arrival,  Hector  takes  me  to  the  stables 
and  shows  me  a  pretty  pair  of  ponies. 

"  These  are  for  you  to  drive,"  he  says.  "  I  am  in  hopes 
you  will  be  able  to  entice  my  mother  out.  It  will  seem  dif- 
ferent from  taking  a  formal  drive  in  a  large  carriage." 

He  has  them  put  to,  and  makes  me  drive  him  round  the 
park,  and  I  enjoy  it  most  thoroughly.  I  cannot  help  fancy- 
ing (perhaps  with  the  vanity  I  deprecated  in  Miss  Byron) 
that  the  ponies  are  here  more  on  my  account  than  his  mother's. 


DIANA'S  STORY.  353 

How  good  and  thoughtful  lie  is !  why  cannot  I  care  for  him  ? 
True  to  his  word,  he  never  makes  the  slightest  allusion  to  the 
past ;  but  for  an  occasional  look  in  his  dark  eyes,  I  might  think 
he  had  quite  got  over  caring  for  me.  We  have  an  unceasing 
subject  of  conversation  in  the  improvements  he  proposes 
making.  Every  evening  we  pore  together  over  plans  of  cot- 
tages and  schools.  We  make  delightful  little  pictures  of  clean, 
comfortable  houses,  with  trim  gardens,  and  places  where  the 
cottager  may  keep  his  pig  without  annoyance  to  himself  or 
his  neighbors  ;  where  he  may  have  his  potatoes  and  cabbages 
and  fruit-trees ;  where  he  may  keep  bees,  if  he  has  a  taste 
that  way,  and  even  fowls ;  a  little  drying-ground,  where  the 
good  wife  can  hang  out  her  clothes,  instead  of  employing  the 
surrounding  bushes  and  hedges :  in  short,  a  habitation  so 
pleasant  and  inviting  that  it  would  be  a  real  pleasure  to  live 
in  it,  even  though  one  had  a  higher  social  status  than  that  of 
a  farm-laborer. 

Meantime,  Lady  Montagu  dozes  away  comfortably  in  her 
arm-chair  by  the  fire,  secure  from  any  interruption  of  her 
pleasant  slumbers.  The  days  pass  on  neither  very  slowly  nor 
very  swiftly,  as  is  usually  the  case  when  one  leads  a  comfort- 
able, uneventful  life.  She  is  decidedly  far  more  cheerful  than 
when  I  came  :  her  eyes  fre  brighter,  her  cheeks  less  waxen, 
she  smiles  not  unfrequently,  and  without  that  dreary  eifort 
which  was  so  painful  to  see  at  first.  She  has  driven  several 
times  with  me  in  the  pony-carriage,  and  enjoys  it.  The 
weather  is  clear  and  bright,  and  she  has  no  symptoms  of  her 
old  enemy  bronchitis. 

Neither  she  nor  Hector  ever  allude  to  Colonel  Montagu  : 
once  or  twice  when  the  post-bag  comes  in  I  recognize  his 
handwriting,  but  she  reads  her  letter  without  a  word  of  com- 
ment. I  long  to  know  if  he  is  going  to  marry  the  heiress,  but 
dare  not  ask.  It  is  evident  i  nough,  by  their  own  silence,  that 
ihey  do  not  wish  me  to  refer  to  him. 

3  )  • 


35 i  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

After  a  fortnight  at  Alf  )rd,  I  begin  to  talk  of  going  home, 
although  they  both  use  every  argument  in  their  power  to  dis- 
suade me.  I  am  happy  enough  :  it  is  from  no  wish  to  leave 
either  of  them.  I  love  Lady  Montagu  dearly,  and  for  her 
son  I  feel  the  very  warmest  regard :  every  day  makes  me  like 
him  more,  for  every  day  brings  fresh  instances  of  his  real 
unobtrusive  goodness.  I  cross-question  myself  severely  un 
the  subject  of  my  inability  to  love  him,  but  my  rebellious 
heart  flings  to  the  wind  any  notion  that  he  can  ever  be  more 
to  me  than  a  friend.  No  !  Loyal  je  serai  durant  ma  vie.  I 
have  never  loved,  shall  never  love,  but  one  man. 

It  is,  however,  on  papa's  account  that  I  want  to  go  home, 
for  I  know  quite  well,  in  spite  of  ten  thousand  protestations 
to  the  contrary,  that  he  does  miss  his  little  girl  sadly.  I  have 
elicited  so  much  from  severe  cross-questioning  of  Gay. 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  she  says,  after  great  pressure,  "  it's  no 
use  my  goin'  against  the  truth,  nor  it  wouldn't  be  right  to  do 
so,  though  your  pa  would  be  very  angry  with  me  for  letting 
of  it  out,  but  he  does  seem  quite  moped  and  lost  like  when 
you're  away.  Even  that  Sally,  whose  head  is  as  thick  as  a 
deal  board,  she  can't  help  noticin'  of  it, — how  he  scarcely  eats 
anything,  and  always  reads  a  book  all  meal-times.  And  the 
fuss  he  makes  of  that  dog"  (meaning  the  pug),  "  you  wouldn't 
believe  it ;  and  when  you  are  coming  back  he  always  brings 
the  letter  to  me,  and  his  eyes  brighten  up,  and  he  says,  '  Well, 
Gay,  your  young  lady's  coming  home  to-morrow,  or  next  week,' 
as  it  may  be,  and  then  I  promise  you,  my  dear,  we  all  go 
about  with  twice  as  much  life  in  us  as  before." 

So  I  know  that  I  am  missed,  and  that  makes  me  resolute  in 
refusing  to  be  away  for  very  long  at  a  time.  But,  as  Hector 
entreats  me  so  earnestly  and  genuinely  for  his  mother's  sake, 
I  yield,  and  stay  on  another  week.  But  all  the  entreaties  in 
the  world  are  powerless  to  keep  me  a  day  longer.  I  promise 
to  come  over  frequently  for  a  day  or  two  at  a  time. 


^Or  TOLD  BY  DIANA.  355 

So  I  take  my  leave,  and  go  back  to  papa  and  Gray  and  the 
pug.  I  have  heard  people  assert  that  pugs  are  stupid.  I 
should  like  to  show  them  mine.  Of  all  the  devoted,  faithful, 
intelligent  friends  in  the  canine  world,  commend  me  to  a  pug  ! 
I  could  write  chapters  upon  chapters  about  dogs,  and,  though 
I  have  not  had  experiences  among  my  own  kind  bitter  enough 
to  make  me  appreciate  it  thoroughly,  I  can  still  recognize  the 
fine  satire  in  the  speech  of  the  man  who  said,  '■'■Plusje  connais 
les  hommes,  plus  f  admire  les  cJiiens." 


CHAPTER    XXXVII. 

NOT   TOLD    BY   DIANA. 

Diana  is  sitting  over  the  fire  one  dull  November  afternoon 
three  days  after  her  return  from  Alford.  She  has  brought 
home  a  goodly  store  of  books,  and  is  deep  in  one  of  them. 
She  has  glanced  through  the  window  and  assured  herself  that 
there  is  nothing  to  attract  her  out  of  doors ;  her  conscience 
does  not  prick  her  on  account  of  the  dogs,  as  they  have  had 
a  famous  run  before  lunch :  so  she  arms  herself  with  a  novel 
with  the  real  delight  of  a  passionate  lover  of  reading,  piles  up 
the  blazing  fire  with  more  wood,  and  ensconces  herself  in  a 
cosy  chair  with  her  feet  on  the  fender.  The  bright  flames 
throw  a  ruddy  light  upon  her  hair  and  a  delicate  pink  shade 
on  her  face ;  her  slender  ringless  hands  look  scarce  strong 
enough  to  support  the  heavy  tome  over  which  she  is  poring  so 
intently ;  her  small  slippered  feet  are  crossed  on  the  fender, 
and  she  has  evidently  made  up  her  mind  to  an  afternoon  of 


356  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

uninterrupted  enjoyment.  But  she  has  only  read  a  chapter 
and  a  half  when  the  unwonted  sound  of  the  door-bell  makes 
her  start. 

"  Oh,  dear!"  she  says,  half  aloud,  with  an  accent  of  un- 
feigned disappointment,  "  who  can  it  possibly  be  ?  Just  as  I 
was  getting  so  intensely  interested,  too  !" 

She  is  not  left  long  in  suspense.  Gay  herself  ushers  in, 
with  the  ceremony  due  to  so  important  a  guest,  "  Sir  Hector 
Montagu." 

"  You  are  not  well,"  says  Diana,  in  a  tone  of  friendly  in- 
terest, as  soon  as  the  first  greetings  are  over.  "  How  pale  you 
look !"  He  takes  a  seat  opposite  to  her,  and  for  a  moment 
makes  no  answer.  She  has  time  to  note  the  haggard,  hunted 
expression  of  his  face,  changed  almost  out  of  knowledge  in 
the  last  three  days. 

"  It  is  no  use,"  he  says,  in  a  low,  agitated  voice  :  "  I  can- 
not be  silent  any  longer.  I  gave  you  my  word  not  to  open 
my  lips  about  my  love  at  Alford,  and  I  kept  it,  did  I  not  ? 
— kept  it  to  the  letter.  But  it  is  too  strong  for  me.  Can 
you  not  give  me  hope  ?  Oh,  for  God's  sake,  if  you  can, 
do!" 

And  the  hunted  eyes  look  at  her  in  terrible  earnest.  At 
his  words,  all  the  kindly  warm  feeling  of  friendship  for  him 
that  has  grown  up  in  her  heart  during  the  last  three  weeks 
dies  out  and  gives  way  to  a  cold  feeling  of  repulsion.  Her 
face  becomes  pale,  and  she  shivers, — ever  so  little, — but  yet 
he  sees  it. 

"  What  is  it,"  he  cries,  in  a  voice  of  indignant  pain,  "  that 
repels  you  so  ?  Am  I  loathsome  ?  Am  I  something  to  shrink 
from  as  you  might  from  a  leper?  Am  I  so  repulsive  that 
even  you,  who  are  so  good  and  charitable  you  would  not  will- 
ingly pain  any  one,  cannot  but  shiver  at  the  sound  of  my 
voice  when  it  speaks  of  love  ?" 

Diana's  kind  heart  is  stung  by  remorse. 


NOT  TOLD  BY  DIANA.  357 

"  Oh,  no  !  no  !  do  not  say  that!"  she  cries,  hastily,  and  then 
looking  round  as  though  to  conjure  help  from  some  invisible 
presence.  "  Oh  !"  she  says,  remorsefully,  clasping  her  hands, 
"  what  can  I  do  to  make  him  not  care  for  me  ?" 

He  makes  a  great  effort  over  himself,  but  his  eyes_are  full 
of  unutterable  pain.     Presently  he  says,  humbly, — 

"  Could  you  not  try  to  tolerate  me  ? — could  you  not  get 
accustomed  to  the  thought  of 'me  by  degrees?  And  then 
sui  ely,  in  time,  my  love  for  you  could  not  fail  to  bring  out 
some  answering  feeling  in  your  heart." 

Her  eyes  are  fixed  mournfully  on  the  fire ;  she  does  not 
know  how  to  answer  him,  since  it  is  impossible  that  she  can 
give  him  hope.  He  takes  faint  courage  from  her  silence,  and 
continues : 

"  After  that  night  at  Alford  I  did  everything  in  my  power 
to  forget  you.  I  vowed  that  I  would  conquer  my  love,  but" 
(sighing)  "  it  was  too  strong  for  me.  Ever  since  my  father's 
death  I  have  occupied"  myself  perpetually  about  the  place, 
trying  to  get  oblivion  by  hard  work  both  bodily  and  mental. 
But  all  the  time  I  hungered  for  the  sight  of  you ;  and  when 
you  came  you  made  the  place  heaven  for  me,  as  I  knew  you 
would.  God  knows  what  a  bitter  efibrt  it  cost  me  to  keep 
silent  all  the  time  ;  but  I  had  given  you  my  word.  Now  I 
must  speak." 

.Diana,  genuinely  distressed,  casts  about  her  for  something 
that  will  make  her  refusal  of  him  less  harsh. 

•'  I  wish  you  would  not  persist  in  thinking  so  well  of  me," 
she  says,  rather  forlornly.  "  I  can't  think  why  you  should 
care  so  much  about  me  :  indeed,  I  am  not  so  very  nice,  really  ; 
you  would  be  very  much  disappointed  in  mc." 

"  Should  I  ?"  he  answers,  eagerly.  "  I  am  quite  content 
to  risk  that." 

"  But,"  she  says,  raising  troubled  brown  eyes  to  his,  and 
trying  back  since  her  last  words  were  unsuccessful,  "  surely  it 


358  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

could  be  no  happiness  to  you,  to  any  man,  to  have  a  woman 
who  could  not  make  the  smallest,  faintest  pretense  of  loving 
him.  And"  (sorrowfully,  because  she  hates  to  give  him  pain) 
"  I  could  not." 

"  It  seems  strange,"  he  says,  turning  his  eyes  from  hers  and 
gazing  into  the  fire.  "  I  used  to  be  rather  a  proud  fellow,  but 
now  I  seem  to  myself  a  very  abject.  I  would  rather  have 
your  indifference  than  any  other  woman's  love.  I  would 
rather"  (looking  at  her  with  fierce,  miserable  eyes)  "  have  you 
if  I  knew  you  hated  me  than  go  without  you." 

Diana's  resources  have  come  to  an  end.  What  can  one  say 
to  a  madman  ?  She  takes  refuge  in  silence.  Oh,  if  her 
father  would  only  come  in  !  she  thinks  ;  if  some  diversion  of 
any  kind  would  occur  to  put  an  end  to  this  miserable  tete-d- 
tete  !  But  nothing  does  happen,  and  she  sits  staring  mutely 
at  the  fire  and  trying  to  get  inspiration  out  of  the  glowing 
logs.  But  none  comes,  and,  after  a  long,  unbroken  silence, 
she  says,  desperately,  — 

"  What  am  I  to  say  to  you  ?" 

"  Say  !"  he  cries,  clutching  at  the  very  faintest  ray  of  hope; 
"  say  you  will  try.  Think  about  it ;  try  to  get  used  to  the 
thought ;  let  me  come  and  see  you  often  ;  tell  me  how  to  make 
you  like  me.  What  is  there  in  the  world  I  would  not  do  or 
compel  myself  to,  if  it  made  you  think  more  kindly  of  me  ? 
If  you  send  me  away"  (feverishly)  "you  send  me  to  the 
devil !  I  shall  throw  up  everything  at  home  and  go  away 
somewhere,  to  Africa  or  China, — it  is  all  the  same  to  me,  as 
long  as  I  only  put  an  impossible  distance  between  myself  and 
the  sight  of  you." 

"  What !"  cries  Diana,  "  and  give  up  all  the  plans  for  doing 
good  that  you  have  looked  forward  to  for  years,  now  when 
everything  is  in  your  power,  in  your  own  hands?" 

"  Yes,"  he  says,  bitterly,  "  even  so.  I  am  a  poor  philan- 
thropist, am  I  not,  to  let  all  my  good  resolves  be  balked  by  a 


NOT   TOLD   BY  DIANA.  359 

pet  at  Fate ;  but  if  I  stayed  here  without  you  I  should  go 
mad :  there  is  madness  somewhere  in  the  family,  I  believe" 
(looking  rather  wild). 

Then,  as  he  sees  Diana's  frightened  look,  he  says,  calmly, — 

"  No,  no  ;  do  not  be  afraid.  I  am  sane  enough  ;  only  about 
going  to  the  farther  ends  of  the  earth  I  am  quite  serious.  Oh, 
Diana,"  coming  closer  to  her  and  taking  one  white,  reluctant 
hand,  "  think  what  we  might  do  together,  how  happy  we 
would  make  our  people,  how,  working  together,  we  should 
strive  to  lessen  some  of  the  gigantic  burden  of  sorrow  and 
want  that  grinds  the  souls  and  bodies  of  the  poor.  Has  that 
no  weight  with  you, — you  who  are  so  pitiful,  so  tender-hearted 
and  charitable?  Your  life  could  not  but  be  a  happy  one, 
since  it  would  be  so  full  of  goodness  and  charity,  and  you 
would  be  loved"  (his  deep  voice  quivering  with  strong  pas- 
sion) "  as  I  believe  before  God  no  woman  was  ever  loved 
before.  What  is  my  fate  to  be  ?  is  it  to  be  a  life  of  love,  a 
life  of  usefulness  and  honor,  or  will  you  condemn  me  to  be  a 
miserable  outcast?" 

He  is  pouring  out  his  very  soul  in  his  words :  it  is  no 
exaggerated  language,  such  as  men  think  right  to  use  on 
such  occasions  ;  every  syllable  comes  straight  from  his  suffer- 
ing heart. 

Diana  is  overcome :  the  intensity  of  his  passion  masters 
her.  Her  face  is  ashen  pale :  her  lips  will  scarce  unclo.se  to 
pronounce  her  heart's  death-warrant.  In  a  moment  of  time 
she  has  thought  of  her  barren  futrfre,  of  the  hopelessness  of 
her  own  love,  and  as  he  draws  the  vivid  picture  of  his  own 
life  to  come,  which,  according  to  her  fiat,  shall  be  good  or 
evil,  the  thought  of  sacrificing  herself  dawns  in  her  heart. 

"  Let  it  be  as  you  wish  !"  she  almost  gasps. 

He  seizes  both  Jier  hands  and  looks  into  her  eyes  as  though 
he  would  pierce  her  very  soul. 

"Are  you  in  earnest?"  he  says.     "Oh,  for  God's  sake 


360  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

dou't  deceive  me ! — dou't  promise  and  take  your  word  back 
again,  unless  you  want  me  to  blow  my  brains  out !" 

She  draws  away  from  him  and  stands  upright. 

"  If  you  are  willing  to  let  me  sacrifice  myself"  she  says, 
looking  at  him  with  cold  misery  in  her  eyes, — "well"  (with 
a  gasping  sigh),  "  so  be  it !" 

"  It  shall  not  be  a  sacrifice,"  he  cries,  passionately :  "  you 
will,  you  shall  be  happy.  Unless  you  are  the  most  unreason- 
able woman  God  ever  made, — and  I  know  you  are  not  that, — 
you  must  be  content  with  your  life  :  nay,  you  shall  love  me 
yet." 

For  one  moment,  in  his  wild  joy  of  having  her,  willing  or 
unwilling,  he  loses  his  stern  self-control  and  lays  his  burning 
lips  on  her  cold,  most  reluctant  ones.  And  if  the  King  of 
Terrors  had  claimed  her  as  his  bride,  and  sealed  her  to  him- 
self with  his  icy  kiss,  she  could  not  have  shrunk  and  shivei-ed 
with  a  more  ghastly  horror.  But  Hector,  if  even  he  is  con- 
scious of  it,  does  not  care :  his  blinded  eyes  see  only  the 
radiant  picture  of  the  future  wherein  she  shall  love  him  as 
he  loves  her. 

She  starts  from  him,  crying,  with  unconscious  cruelty, — 

"  Do  not  make  mc  hate  you  !  You  know  I  have  no  love  to 
give  you.  I  am  sacrificing  my  future  to  yours.  Do  not  make 
the  sacrifice  too  impossible  !" 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  says,  humbly,  taking  her  cold  hand 
quietly. 

Before  she  knows  what  he  is  doing,  he  has  slij^ped  on  her 
finger  a  ring  blazing  with  diamonds. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  whispers,  triumphantly,  "  I  have  carried 
that  about  with  me  ever  since  the  day  I  went  to  London  when 
you  were  first  at  Alford,  in  the  forlorn  wild  hope  that  some 
day  this  might  come  to  pass?" 

Diana  feels  inclined  to  tear  it  off  and  fling  it  away.  What 
cares  she  though  he  could  deck  her  from*  head  to  foot  with 


I^OT  TOLD  BY  DIANA.  361 

diamonds,  each  one  as  big  as  the  Koh-i-noor  ?     Would  they 
make  her  heart  less  heavy,  her  sacrifice  less  bitter? 

"I  know,"  he  utters,  an  uneasy  flush  coming  to  his  dark 
brow,  "  that  you  cannot  get  reconciled  to  the  idea  all  at  once. 
Perhaps  you  hate  me  for  having  taken  an  unfair  advantage  of 
you,  but  you  will  think  better  of  it  in  time.  Only  don't,  I 
implore  you,  steel  your  heart  against  me :  try,  when  I  am 
gone,  to  think  more  kindly  of  me.  I  won't  stop  now"  (look- 
ing wistfully  at  her,  as  though  hoping  she  might  bid  him  stay). 

She  does  not :  she  is  longing  to  be  rid  of  his  hateful  pres- 
ence, to  be  alone  with  her  gigantic  new  misery, — the  worst, 
she  thinks  now,  that  has  ever  befallen  her.  So,  with  one 
lingering  clasp  of  her  unwilling  hand,  he  goes, — goes,  astound- 
ing as  the  fact  may  seem,  wildly,  feverishly  happy. 

Diana,  left  to  herself,  feels  like  one  in  a  dream.  She  moves 
to  the  window  and  looks  out  at  the  chill  dull  day,  chill  and 
dull  as  her  own  hopes  of  the  future, — looks  with  vague  eyes 
at  the  bare  trees  with  their  scanty  remnant  of  yellow  leaves, 
at  the  sodden  gravel-walk,  the  few  straggling  bits  of  color 
among  the  dying  autumn  flowers.  She  shivers,  and  comes 
back  to  the  warm  tire  and  leans  with  one  arm  on  the  mantel- 
shelf and  her  head  resting  on  her  hand.  Glancing  uncon- 
sciously downwards,  her  eyes  light  upon  the  ring  which  is 
flashing  back  a  hundred  lovely  lights  from  the  glowing 
flames.  She  drags  it  off'  and  flings  it  away  from  her,  and 
then,  as  a  sudden  remembrance  darts  aci'oss  her,  she  tears  out 
her  handkerchief  and  passes  it  sharply  again  and  again  over 
her  lips  until  the  blood  comes.  The  lips  that  she  had  meant 
should  never  more  be  touched  by  mortal  man !  that  until  now 
had  been  sacred  to  the, memory  of  that  one  golden  day  !  She 
begins  to  realize  what  she  has  done.  A  vista  of  unspeakable 
horror  opens  before  her.  What !  to  live  in  the  house  that  is 
yet  his  home,  where  he  needs  must  come  and  she  needs  must 
see  him,  and,  seeing,  love  him,  though  she  is  his  brother's 
Q  31 


362  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

wife  ?     And  at  this  ghastly  thought  she  flings  herself  down 
on  the  ground  and  sobs  and  moans  with  such  terrible  anguish 
that,  could  the  man  who  was  so  confident  of  winning  her  love 
see  her,  he  must  needs  relinquish  all  hope. 
Sir  Hector  mounted  his  horse, — 

"He  gave  his  bridle-rein  a  shake," 

and  rode  ofi"  triumphantly,  with  flashing  eyes.  In  his  exulta- 
tion he  tossed  a  sovereign  to  the  old  man  who  did  duty  as 
groom  and  gardener  at  Carcw  Court.  The  latter,  gazing  at 
his  retreating  form,  had  half  a  mind  to  run  after  him  and 
ask  if  he  had  not  mistaken  the  gold,  piece  for  a  shilling,  but 
pleased  himself  by  deciding  that  it  was  intended  as  a  gift, 
now  Sir  Hector  had  come  into  so  much  wealth  and  splendor. 
"  Anyhow,"  he  remarked  to  himself,  "  it's  nothin'  to  him,  and 
it's  a  fortin'  to  nie."  Saying  which,  after  one  more  loving 
glance,  he  put  it  away  in  his  waistcoat-pocket,  where  it  warmed 
the  cockles  of  his  old  heart. 

Meantime,  Sir  Hector  rode  on  his  way.  For  the  first  mile 
he  felt  nothing  but  a  wild  sense  of  triumph ;  at  the  second,  an 
unpleasant  remembrance  of  Diana's  stony  look  of  misery  thrust 
itself  upon  him  ;  at  the  third,  a  reaction  came,  and  he  pulled 
up  his  horse  suddenly  by  the  roadside.  Bruno,  having  had  a 
tolerably  long  journey,  was  not  fretful  or  impatient  at  this 
sudden  pause,  but  betook  himself,  unchecked,  to  searching  in 
the  hedge  for  some  stray  bit  of  edible  green,  wherewith  to  be- 
guile himself  whilst  awaiting  his  master's  pleasure.  If  any 
one  had  come  along  the  road  just  then  they  might  have  been 
astonished  on  this  chilly  November  afternoon  to  see  a  horse 
and  his  rider  stationed  by  the  hedge-side,  as  though  it  were  a 
broiling  afternoon  and  they  were  taking  shelter  from  the  too 
ardent  rays  of  a  July  sun.  Sir  Hector's  brows  were  deeply 
knit.     Here,  in  the  hushed  gray  stillness,  between  the  two 


NOT   TOLD  BY  DIANA.  363 

hedgerows  of  wintry  red  berries  and  tangled  brambles,  he  was 
fighting  with  himself  the  hardest  battle  he  had  ever  yet  been 
called  upon  to  fight  during  his  six  lustres  of  life, — fighting 
with  the  hopes  that  were  dearer  to  him  than  life.  One  hor- 
rible thought  had  taken  possession  of  him, — the  same  one 
that  had  moved  Diana  to  her  outburst  of  anguish  :  it  was  the 
thought  of  his  brother.  He  knew  well  enough  that  she  had 
luved  him,  that  it  was  that  love  which  had  stood  between 
himself  and  her  before,  that  for  aught  he  knew  was  standing 
between  them  now.  Had  he  not  been  in  the  same  housQ  with  her 
for  weeks  only  two  months  ago^  and  though  over  his  futher^'s 
death-bed  he  had  wrung  from  him,  on  certain  conditions,  the 
oath  that  he  would  never  speak  to  Diana  again  of  love,  what 
faith  was  there  to  be  put  in  him  ?  Had  he  not  at  Alford,  the 
very  same  evening  that  he  had  volunteered  to  withdraw  him- 
self from  his  (Hector's)  light,  made  open  and  violent  love  to 
her?  But  came  the  ghastly  thought,  suppose  it  turned  out  as 
he  hoped,  suppose  Diana  came  to  care  for  him  :  could  he  hope 
to  keep  her  forever  out  of  sight  of  Charlie?  And  suppose 
when  she  did  meet  him,  after  however  long  a  time,  the  old 
love  came  back  ?  Even  if  he  trusted  implicitly  in  her  high 
principle,  would  that  hinder  his  own  jealous  heart  from  beat- 
ing with  furious  suspicion,  even  hatred  of  his  "brother, — of 
them  both,  perhaps  ?  And  yet  to  tear  this  new  hope,  that 
had  seemed  like  the  unclosing  of  heaven's  gates  to  him,  out 
of  his  heart,  to  leave  a  torn,  gaping  wound,  that  all  time 
would  fail  to  cicatrize  ! 

It  is  over  ;  with  one  throe  of  agony  he  has  torn  the  dear 
hope  out  of  his  life.  He  picks  up  the  reins,  turns  his  horse's 
head,  and  rides  swiftly  back  to  Carew  Court.  The  old  groom, 
seeing  him  come  back,  is  smitten  with  a  grievous  suspicion 
that  he  has  discovered  his  error  and  returned  for  the  sover- 
eign, and  is  preparing  to  think  meanly  of  him  in  his  disap- 
pointed heart.     But  Sir  Hector  only  throws  him  the  reins, 


364  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

muttering  that  lie  lias  forgotten  something,  and  turns  hastily 
to  the  house.  The  hall-door  is  ajar :  he  pushes  it  open  and 
goes  in.  No  one  meets  him,  and  he  makes  his  way  to  the 
room  where  he  left  Diana.  Without  knocking,  he  opens  the 
door,  and  sees  her  prone  by  the  fireside,  wailing  and  weeping 
in  her  bitter  abandonment.  She  does  not  hear  him,  and  he 
stands  for  a  moment  looking  at  her. 

''  It  is  well  that  I  came,"  he  thinks,  with  a  bitter  pang. 

He  closes  the  door,  and  she,  hearing  the  sound,  turns 
quickly. 

"  Dry  your  tears,"  he  says,  in  a  harsh,  husky  voice ;  "  do 
not  sob  in  that  agonized  way;"  for,  try  as  she  may,  she  can- 
not all  at  once  still  the  gasping  throes  that  shake  her  slender 
frame.     "  I  have  come  to  release  you." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  cries,  eagerly;  "you  are  right;  you  see  it 
could  not  have  been.  Oh"  (rising  to  her  feet  and  giving  a 
sigh  of  utter  relief),  "  I  am  glad  that  you  see  it  too.  "There," 
she  says,  stretching  out  a  hand  to  him  that  is  no  longer  un- 
willing, and  smiling  through  her  tears,  "  I  will  make  a  fresh 
compact  with  you.  I  will  always  be  your  friend, — your  best 
friend." 

"  Never !"  he  answers,  harshly,  more  pained  than  words 
could  express  at  her  joyful  acceptance  of  his  bitter  sacrifice. 
Surely  she  who  was  his  ideal  of  all  that  was  tender  and 
womanly  might  have  some  intuitive  sympathy  for  the  great 
waste  and  havoc  of  his  life,  which  she  herself,  however  un- 
wittingly, has  caused  !  "  After  to-day,  if  I  can  help  it,  I  will 
never  see  you  again." 

"  You  will  think  better  of  it,"  she  says,  and  all  the  time 
she  is  stealing  furtive  glances  around  to  see  what  has  become 
of  the  ring  she  flung  away  in  her  disgust.  Presently  she 
espies  it  glittering  behind  the  leg  of  a  chair.  He  has  turned 
away,  and  is  looking  with  miserable  eyes  into  the  fire,  and  she 
takes  the  opportunity  of  stooping  to  pick  it  up  and  slip  it  on 


NOT  TOLD   BY  DIANA.  365 

her  finger  again.    As  if  he  had  not  seen  it  lying  the  very  first 
moment  he  entered  the  room  ! 

Diana  stands  looking  at  him,  rather  embarrassed  how  to 
return  it.  She  does  not  want  to  give  him  pain,  but  she  can- 
not keep  this  valuable  token  that  but  so  late  was  the  badge 
and  symbol  of  the  loathed-  enslavement  of  her  future.  As  she 
is  casting  about  uneasily  in  her  mind  for  some  appropriate  yet 
unwounding  words  with  which  to  return  it,  he  turns  and  looks 
at  her. 

"  Let  me  look  at  you  for  the  last  time !"  he  mutters,  in  a 
voice  harsh  with  strangled  emotion ;  "  let  me  be  quite  sure 
that  the  woman  who  spoiled  my  life  was  as  lovely  as  I  thought 
her !" 

Diana  stands  before  him  with  the  color  shifting  uneasily  in 
her  face :  not  even  the  bitter  fit  of  crying  has  made  her  un- 
beautiful.  The  troubled  brown  eyes  look  up  at  him  with 
unfeigned  sorrow  for  his  pain.  He  gives  one  long  fixed  look 
at  her.  "  Good-by,"  he  says,  with  a  sigh,  wrung  from  the 
depths  of  his  heart,  not  attempting  to  touch  her,  or  to  take 
other  farewell  than  that  one  sorrowful  word.  With  that  he 
turns  to  go. 

"  Stop  !"  she  says,  detaining  him  :  "  this  ring"  (drawing  it 
quickly  from  her  finger), — '■'•  lAease  take  it." 

He  grasps  it  with  mingled  wrath  and  pain,  and  flings  it 
furiously  into  the  fire's  red  heart.  But  his  fury  has  more  of 
pain  than  anger  in  it. 

He  is  gone,  and  Diana  on  her  knees  is  carefully  rescuing 
the  costly  bauble  from  its  fiery  grave.  When  it  is  cool  enough, 
she  wipes  it,  and  lays  it  aside  to  be  returned  on  some  future 
occasion.  She  feels  very  sorry  for  him,  but  in  truth  and 
reality  she  does  not  even  dimly  guess  at  the  bitter  pain  she 
has  inflicted  upon  him.  We  know  well  enough  our  own 
pangs,  but  which  of  us  ever  realizes  those  of  his  brother 
man? 

31* 


366  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII. 

NOT   TOLD   BY   DIANA. 

As  Hector  rode  home,  he  felt  that  all  pleasure  in  life,  all 
love  of  it,  was  gone  from  him.  Until  now  he  had  always  had 
hope,  however  dim  or  vague,  that  Diana  would  be  his  one 
day ;  now  he  realized  fully  the  futility  of  his  dreams.  lu 
one  hour's  time,  life  had  grown  black  and  bitter :  it  held 
nothing  for  hint  in  the.  future  that  he  valued.  Many  a  boy 
in  his  passionate  disappointment  has  felt  the  same,  and  in  a 
month's  time  has  laughed .  again  and  gone  about  the  world 
with  a  very  cheery  comfortable  interest  in  it ;  but  this  would 
not  be  the  case  with  Hector.  He  was  not  reckless  or  impul- 
sive ;  he  knew  his  own  mind ;  having  lost  the  one  woman 
whom  he  loved,  no  other  could  ever  take  her  place.  There 
might  be  a  thousand  more  made  after  the  same  external  pat- 
tern, women  with  bright  eyes,  sweet  red  lips,  and  gracious 
ways,  but  there  was  only  one  Diana  Carew  for  him.  He  had 
never  loved  or  much  desired  any  other  woman ;  this  one  pos- 
sessed all  his  heart.  And  she  had  tossed  it  lightly,  nay,  con- 
temptuously, away. 

For  a  few  hours  he  kept  up  bravely.  He  dined  with  his 
mother,  talked  to  her  cheerfully,  as  though  to-day  had  been 
as  commonplace  as  other  days,  read  or  seemed  to  read  the 
papers  as  usual  while  she  dozed,  and  kissed  her  with  the  wonted 
affectionate  kiss  when  she  retired  for  the  night.  He  too  went 
to  his  room,  and  there  he  laid  his  arms  on  the  table,  and,  bury- 
ing his  face  in  them,  sobbed — not  like  a  child,  as  the  common 
phrase  runs,  but — as  only  a  stern  grown  man  can  sob,  and  he, 


NOT  TOLD   BY  DIANA.  367 

if  God  is  merciful  to  liim,  but  once  in  a  lifetime.  It  was  his 
farewell  to  love,  to  hope,  to  life,  all  but  the  mere  mechanical 
every-day  part  of  it.  What  should  he  do  ?  he  asked  himself; 
if  he  stayed  on  here  alone,  with  all  the  huge  long  hours  in 
which  to  eat  his  heart  out  in  vain  regrets,  he  should  go  mad. 
Then  he  formed  a  bitter  resolve.  How  many  a  time  had  he 
not  heard  of  men  going  to  the  devil  when  overtaken  by  griev- 
ous disappointment,  and  coming  back  after  a  time  the  worse 
perhaps  in  health  and  pocket,  but  tolerably  cured  of  their 
heart-aches,  anyhow  with  the  wounds  cauterized.  He  had 
never  been  a  saint ;  he  had  as  much  of  earthly  alloy  as  most 
men,  not  bad  men,  have ;  but  he  had  never  loved  vice  for  its 
own  sake,  had  always  had  a  healthy  disgust  for  its  grossness 
and  coarseness ;  but  now  he  meant  to  fly  to  its  foul  waters 
for  the  nepenthe  without  which  he  needs  must  die  or  lose  his 
reason.  He  was  going  to  try  dissipation,  like  a  man  of  sober, 
temperate  habits  might  toss  off  glass  after  glass  of  brandy  as 
an  antidote  to  the  agonies  of  neuralgia.  So  he  went,  and  re- 
turned a  fortnight  later  in  the  state  a  man  of  his  temperament 
would  naturally  do,  his  nerves  unstrung,  his  whole  soul  filled 
with  unutterable  loathing  and  horror  of  himself  and  all  con- 
nected with  his  moral  experiment.  He  had  a  new  remedy  in 
view  now.  He  longed  for  death  as  men  long  "after  hid  treas- 
ures," but  he  would  not  take  his  life  with  liis  own  hand ;  that 
would  be  unmanly,  that  would  stain  his  ancient  name  with  dis- 
honor. But  there  were  other  means.  He  took  to  hunting 
every  day  when  there  was  a  meet  within  twenty  miles.  'He 
had  always  been  a  fair  rider,  now  he  became  a  desperate  one, 
— rode  as  straight  as  a  die ;  no  place  was  too  big  or  too  ugly 
for  him.  The  best  riders  in  the  field  looked  askance  at  him 
"  By  Jove !"  said  one  to  another,  "  one  would  think  a  fellow 
who  has  just  come  in  to  a  title  and  such  a  property  as  Montagu 
would  set  a  little  more  value  on  his  life.  Hang  me,  if  one 
wouldn't  think  the  follow  tvanfed  [o  break  his  nuck  !" 


3C8  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

And  of  course,  as  it  always  happens  when  a  man  burns  to 
shake  off  Hfe,  it  clings  all  the  stronger  in  him.  Sir  Hector 
came  scathless  out  of  his  rides  for  death,  without  a  bruise  or 
a  scratch :  he  seemed  to  bear  a  charmed  life.  And  he  would 
come  home  worn  out  and  sleep  for  hours  from  sheer  exhaus- 
tion, and  then,  as  regularly  as  the  hour  of  two  came  round, 
he  would  wake  up,  and  be  delivered  over  to  his  tormentor, — 
memory.  He  tried  to  read,  but  Diana's  eyes  looked  out  at 
him  from  the  pages  ;  try  as  he  might,  he  could  not  escape  her. 
And  in  the  morning  he  would  come  down  white,  wild,  hag- 
gard-looking, and,  if  it  was  a  hunting-day,  would  mount  his 
horse,  or,  if  not,  would  go  over  his  farms,  or  take  a  gun  and 
walk  twenty  miles  after  birds ;  but  his  hand  and  eye  were 
unsteady,  and  he  did  not  often  hit  anything  now.  When  he 
did,  he  felt  an  unsportsmanlike  feeling  of  regret,  and  would 
take  the  dead  bird  in  his  hand,  smooth  the  ruffled  feathers 
gently,  and  say,  "  I  might  have  left  the  life  in  you,  since  you 
enjoyed  it.  I  wish  to  Grod  you  were  alive  again,  and  I  was 
dead !" 

His  mind  had  quite  lost  the  strong,  firm  balance  which  it 
had  possessed  formerly  in  a  greater  degree  than  most  men's. 

Lady  Montagu  was  away  for  a  few  weeks  at  Hastings,  to 
get  over  the  worst  of  the  winter,  but  she  was  coming  home 
for  Christmas,  which  would  soon  be  here  now.  Simkins  re- 
'marked  with  genuine  distress  the  change  in  his  master,  and 
confided  his  doubts  and  fears  to  Mrs.  Bishop,  the  comely 
housekeeper,  with  whom,  at  no  very  far  distant  date,  he  con- 
templated setting  up  the  "  Montagu  Arms."  With  the  pene- 
tration of  her  sex,  she  made  a  very  good  guess  at  the  cause 
of  the  change  in  Sir  Hector,  and  was  not  long  in  bringing 
Simkins  round  to  her  own  view  of  the  case. 

"Oh,  woman  !  woman  !"  he  said,  apostrophizing  the  sex  in 
general,  and  Mrs.  Bishop  in  particular,  "  what  you  has  to 
answer  for !     Not  but  what  I  must  say,  if  there  is  to  be  a  new 


NOT  TOLD   BY  DIANA.  369 

Lady  Montagu,  there's  no  one  I  would  like  to  see  occupying 
the  place  better  than  Miss  Carew." 

"  Tut !"  answered  Mrs.  Bishop,  huffily  ;  "  we  don't  want 
no  more  mistresses  here  than  my  lady." 

Sir  Hector  had  always  made  a  point  of  going;  to  church  on 
Sunday  mornings  ;  not  that  he  took  any  particular  pleasure  in 
it,  but  because  he  considered  it  right  for  the  sake  of  example. 
He  found  it  wearisome  work  sometimes  listening  to  the  vicar's 
platitudes.  In  his  heart  he  was  skeptically  inclined,  like 
many  intellectual  men,  and  insisted  on  bringing  revelation  to 
the  test  of  reason.  At  home,  however,  and  in  his  own  parish, 
he  eschewed  all  argument  on  theological  subjects,  and,  for 
aught  any  one  at  Alford  knew  to  the  contrary,  his  religious 
convictions  were  as  deep  and  sincere  as  those  of  the  vicar  him- 
self In  church  he  behaved  with  the  decorum  and  propriety 
of  a  gentleman :  who  was  to  know  that  one  half  the  time  he 
was  indignantly  refuting  to  himself  the  axioms  delivered  from 
reading-desk  and  pulpit,  and  the  other  half  thinking  of  utterly 
irrelevant  subjects?  He  had  great  ideas  of  consistency,  too: 
it  seemed  a  monstrous  absurdity,  not  to  say  crime,  to  pray  to 
God  on  a  Sunday  to  deliver  you  from  sins  that  you  had  the 
fullest  intention  of  committing  probably  the  very  next  week. 
He  steadfastly  refused  to  "eat  and  drink  his  own  damnation" 
by  communicating  whilst  his  life  was  still  impure.  This  was 
the  only  religious  exercise  of  which  he  seemed  outwardly  un- 
observant. But  in  the  future's  happy  vistas  he  had  dreamed 
of  a  time  when  all  this  would  be  changed,  when  his  life  would 
be  pure  without  effort,  when  he  would  banish  all  doubts  from 
his  heart,  and,  kneeling  beside  the  woman  he  loved,  would,  with 
a  glad  heart,  also  offer  up  ungrudgingly  his  prayer  and  praise. 

There  are  very  few  men  who  do  not  look  for  and  respect  piety 
in  a  woman :  even  a  bad  man  is  shocked  by  irreligion  or  flip- 
pant sneers  at  virtue  from  a  woman's  lips.  Hector  had  watched 
Diana  in  church  with  stealthy  and  secret  gladness, — had  gazed 


370  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

at  her  sweet  serious  face,  listened  to  her  devout  utterances, 
longed  for  her  dear  sake  to  be  better,  and  looked  forward  to 
the  time  when  she,  by  her  example  and  influence,  should  lead 
him  too  heavenwards.  And  now  all  these  hopes  were  shatter  ed 
in  the  dust,  and  there  was  nothing  left  for  him  but  to  "curse 
God  and  die."  How  could  he  pra}^  to  a  God  who  had  decreed 
the  utter  ruin  and  blasting  of  his  life  ?  how  love  him  as  a 
Father  who  would  not  willingly  afflict,  when  he  had  laid  this 
crushing  misery  upon  him  ?  And  between  him  and  heaven 
now  there  was  a  great  gulf  fixed, — the  gulf  of  deliberate  sin. 
But,  though  he  had  ceased  even  formally  to  utter  a  prayer,  he 
nevertheless  went  to  church, — partly  from  habit,  partly  from 
a  sense  of  responsibility,  and  chiefly  to  get  rid  of  two  hours 
of  the  weary  Sabbath.  The  Sunday  before  Christmas-day  he 
went  as  usual.  A  stranger  was  doing  duty,  and  Hector  pre- 
pared himself  to  listen  with  a  shade  more  interest  than  usual 
to  the  sermon.  It  was  no  marvel  of  oratory  or  elocution, — a 
few  plain  words,  plainly  spoken ;  but  they  gave  Hector  the 
idea  of  a  new  weapon  wherewith  to  repel  the  enemy  that  beset 
him  in  the  night  and  in  the  noonday.  The  preacher  was  quite 
a  young  man,  nothing  much  to  look  at,  but  he  had  that  most 
excellent  gift  in  a  preacher,  the  art,  whether  it  was  art  or  not, 
of  making  his  hearers  feel  that  he  was  thoroughly  in  earnest. 
Moreover,  he  knew  when  to  stop :  he  did  not  fatigue  his 
already  half-weary  congregation  with  a  lengthy  discourse. 
His  sermon  occupied  just  thirteen  minutes  by  the  clock  in 
the  organ-gallery,  and  when  he  had  made  his  point  he  con- 
cluded.    Some  such  words  as  these  they  were : 

''  Which  among  us  has  led  a  life  so  charmed  that  there  has 
not  entered  into  it  a  bitter  grief  and  disappointment  ?  And 
here  to-day,  I  doubt  not,  there  are  hearts  which  are  troubled, 
sorrowful,  perhaps  despairing.  And  to  those  hearts  I  speak 
now.  I  say  to  them,  have  you  ever  tried  prayer?  I  do  not 
mean  the  morning  and  even  prayers  that  you  gabble  ."^hrough 


NOT  TOLD  BY  DIANA.  371 

by  rote,  prayers  many  of  them  set  and  formal  ones  for  things 
which  perhaps  you  do  not  want, — but  prayer,  the  very  out- 
pouring of  your  souls,  the  prayer  you  would -^ray  on  your 
knees  with  all  the  intensity  your  voice  and  heart  could  com- 
mand if  you  were  asking  the  life  of  one  you  loved  better  than 
yourself,  of  an  earthly  sovereign  or  judge.  If  you  have,  I 
will  answer  for  it  that  you  never  pleaded  to  my  Master  in  vain. 
I  do  not  say  that  he  saw  fit  to  give  you  the  thing  for  which 
you  asked :  in  your  blindness  you  may  have  asked  somethipg 
which,  had  it  been  granted,  would  have  been  your  curse  instead 
of  your  blessing ;  but  you  have  gained  peace,  strength,  cour- 
age ;  you  have  been  able  to  say,  afterwards,  '  It  is  better  if 
the  will  of  God  be  so.'  If  you  have  never  tried  it, — if  you 
have  said  to  yourself,  '  What  does  God  care  ?  he  will  not 
trouble  himself  to  look  down  upon  my  wants  and  sufferings,' 
or  if  you  have  thought,  '  God  must  hate  me,  because  I  have 
led  a  wicked  life :  I  dare  not  approach  him,'  here,  now,  in  his 
name  I  bid  you  shake  off  all  doubt  and  fear.  Prayer  is  the 
talisman  against  misery.  Go  to  him  ;  go  in  secret,  where  no 
disturbing  thoughts  from  the  outside  world  can  beset  you,  and 
there  pour  out  all  your  soul  to  him  as  you  have  never  yet  done 
to  God  or  man  ;  strive  as  Jacob  strove  when  he  cried  out  in 
his  anguish,  '  I  will  not  let  thee  go  except  thou  bless  me,'  and 
I,  the  humj^lest  of  his  ministers,  will  answer  for  my  great  Lord 
and  Master  that  he  who  goes  unto  him  humbly,  sincerely, 
urgently,  shall  in  no  wise  be  cast  out." 

There  was  no  grandeur  or  even  originality  in  the  words ; 
the  speaker  was  commonplace  enough,  but  his  eyes  kindled 
as  he  uttered  them,  his  voice  trembled  with  strong  feeling, 
and,  as  he  spoke,  there  was  such  intense  conviction  in  his 
utterance  that  no  one  could  think  he  was  preaching  a  remedy 
whose  efficacy  he  had  not  himself  proved. 

Hector,  whose  heart  was  hardened  like  the  nether  millstone, 
said  to  himself,  as  he  walked  home,  "  I  too  will  try  if  there  is 


372  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

balm  in  his  Gilead."  And  he  who  had  not  knelt  in  sincere 
prayer  to  God  since  he  was  a  youth,  shut  himself  in  his  room 
and  prayed  with  wild  intensity.  But  he  rose  from  his  knees 
cold,  unconscious  of  any  response  to  his  agony  of  entreaty. 
He  had  but  beaten  the  air  with  vain  and  empty  words. 

But  had  he  prayed  aright?  He  had  not  besought  resigna- 
tion, or  submission,  or  the  power  to  get  good  out  of  what 
seemed  evil :  he  prayed  that  the  woman  he  longed  for  might 
be  his,  or  that  he  might  forget  her.  He  felt  as  though  God 
were  angry  with  him  and  would  not  hear  him.  Who  were 
those,  he  wondered  bitterly,  who  had  tried  the  paths  of  sin 
and  found  them  fair  and  flowery  ?  Apples  of  the  Dead  Sea, 
that  filled  the  mouth  with  gall-bitter  ashes,  they  had  been  to 
him.  Then,  since  vice  was  hateful  and  virtue  impossible, 
what  should  he  do  but  die  ?  The  next  two  days  he  rode 
harder  than  ever :  his  favorite  hunter  was  killed,  but  he  got 
off,  as  usual,  without  a  scratch. 

On  the  third  day  Lady  Montagu  retui-ned.  She  was  posi- 
tively frightened  at  the  change  in  her  son  as  he  helped  her 
out  of  the  carriage.  "  My  dear  boy,"  she  cried,  anxiously, 
"  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  Why  did  you  not  send  for 
me  before?" 

■'  Matter !"  he  answered,  laughing  a  laugh  that  sounded 
j^ainfully  hollow  and  unmirthful.  "  What  should  be  the 
matter?  I  am  as  well  as  ever  I  was  in  my  life.  Why, 
mother,  you  look  as  scared  as  if  you  had  seen  a  ghost." 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  arm  and  w<^nt  with  him  to  her 
boudoir. 

"  Hector,"  she  said,  when  they  were  alone,  with  a  searching 
glance  into  his  eyes,  "  something  must  ail  you,  or  you  could 
not  be  so  changed  in  a  month." 

"I  expect,"  he  answered,  with  a  bitter  laugh,  "that  you 
have  come  straight  from  the  sight  of  your  handsome  son, 
and  had  forgotten  how  ugly  I  was." 


NOT  TOLD  BV  DIANA.    ,  373 

Lady  Montagu  looked  at  him  in  unfeigned  painful  amaze- 
ment.    He  was  never  wont  to  speak  bitterly  to  her. 

"  The  truth  is,"  he  said,  changing  his  tone,  "  I  have  been 
hunting  a  good  deal  lately.  You  see,  there  is  not  a  great  deal 
of  excitement  in  this  lively  place,  and  I  expect  it  has  taken 
it  out  of  me  a  little."  Then  he  added,  abruptly,  "  Perhaps  I 
may  as  well  make  all  my  confession  at  once,  to  save  you  the 
trouble  of  worming  it  out  of  me  by  degrees.  I  asked  Miss 
Carew  again,  and  she  refused  me." 

Lady  Montagu  looked  at  him  with  all  her  mother's  love 
yearning  out  of  her  wet  gray  eyes.  If  perhaps  she  had  loved 
her  bright  handsome  son  the  best  in  fair  days,  in  the  dark 
ones  her  heart  went  out  to  the  one  in  trouble,  as  the  mother's 
heart  always  does. 

"  My  poor  boy !"  she  said,  softly,  clasping  his  hands  ten- 
derly in  hers.  And,  but  for  the  shame  of  it,  the  stern  man 
would  fain  have  laid  his  grieved  head  upon  that  tender 
breast,  and  poured  his  bitter  pain  into  the  loving,  listening 
ear,  as  he  had  done  long  years  ago  in  his  childhood. 

But  now  he  drew  himself  away,  and  said,  huskily,  "  God 
bless  you,  mother !  I  know  you  are  sorry  for  me ;  but,  if 
you  love  me,  never  speak  of  it  again !  Men  get  over  these 
things,"  he  added,  with  a  smile  so  wan  it  almost  broke  her 
heart  to  see. 

She  said  not  another  word,  but  as  she  watched  him  all  that 
evening  her  anxiety  deepened :  she  felt  there  must  be  some- 
thing physically  as  well  as  mentally  amiss,  to  make  his  focc 
so  drawn  and  sharp,  his  eyes  so  hollow  and  sunken,  his 
usually  fii'm  strong  hands  so  shaking  and  nervous.  The 
next  day  she  sent  a  note  to  the  doctor,  who,  as  is  not  un- 
seldom  the  case,  was  also  the  tried  and  trusted  friend  of  the 
family. 

"  Come  and  dine  with  us  in  a  friendly  way  to-night,"  she 
wrote.     "  There  is  something  very  wrong  with  Hector." 

32 


374  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

Mr.  Benyou  was  shrewd,  kindly,  practical :  under  liis  aus- 
pices Hector  and  his  brother  had  gone  through  the  infantine 
troubles  tliat  were  then  eonsidei'ed  de  riffiieur,  had  won  their 
interested  affections  by  prescribing  nice  instead  of  nasty  reme- 
dies when  they  were  ill,  and  by  romping  with  them  when  they 
got  well  again,  and  the  liking  had  not  slackened  when  they 
grew  to  men.  He  often  dined  at  the  Court,  and  was  always 
a  welcome-  guest.  On  this  occasion,  though  liis  dining  was 
no  unusual  event,  Hector  understood  perfectly  that  he  had 
been  sent  for  on  his  account.  But  he  made  no  sign,  and  re- 
ceived the  doctor  with  his  usual  cordial  courtesy.  When 
Lady  Montagu  left  them  after  dinner,  Mr.  Benyon  continued 
to  sip  his  wine  with  his  wonted  enjoyment,  talked  about  sport, 
local  matters,  and  so  forth.  All  the  same  he  was  watching 
his  companion  narrowly.  He  observed  his  restlessness,  saw 
how  little  he  ate,  how  hurriedly  and  without  any  pleasure  he 
gulped  down  his  wine,  as  a  man  might  swallow  a  soothing 
draught.  He  saw  how  sunken  his  eyes  were,  how  livid  the 
lines  underneath  them,  how  his  cheeks  were  sunken  and  his 
lips  so  parched  and  dry  he  had  frequently  to  moisten  them. 
The  doctor  did  not  like  the  look  of  him.  He  said  to  himself, 
shrewdly,  "  There's  a  woman  at  the  bottom  of  this,  I  suspect, 
or  he's  taken  to  gambling:  most  probably  the  former."  It 
was.  no  good  to  lead  up  gently  to  the  subject,  he  concluded. 
Hector  was  not  easy  to  tackle.  So,  suddenly,  without  any 
preface,  he  said,  looking  hard  at  him,  with  his  glass  midway 
back  from  his  mouth  to  the  table, — 

"  There's  something  wrong  with  you,  my  friend:  you  want 
a  little  of  my  advice." 

"  What  a  penetrating  fellow  you  are,  Benyon  !"  returned 
Hector,  with  a  mirthless  laugh.  "  Of  course  my  mother  didn't 
put  you  up  to  this  ?" 

"  It  don't  want  much  putting  up  to,"  answered  the  other, 
bluntly.     "  Do  you  happen  to  have  looked  in  the  glass  lately? 


NOT  TOLD  BY  DIANA.  375 

I  suppose  I  might  ask  the  usual  question,  •  Who  is  she  ?' 
though  it's  nothing  to  my  purpose  to  know  ;  but,  rather,  what 
the  deuce  has  she  been  doing  to  you  ?" 

"  Who  can  minister  to  a  mind  diseased  ?"  said  Hector, 
wearily. 

"  I  can,  to  a  certain  extent.  Keep  your  digestion  right, 
eat  more,  drink  less,  and  get  as  much  exercise  and  fresh  air  as 
you  can." 

"  I've  hunted  five  and  six  days  for  the  last  three  weeks,  and 
have  been  in  the  saddle,  on  an  average,  eight  hours  out  of 
every  twenty-four." 

"  The  deuce  you  have  !  If  you  go  on  like  that,  you'll 
knock  yourself  up  completely.  You're  not  used  to  so  much 
of  it ;  and  in  your  present  state  it  is  likely  to  do  you  a  great 
deal  more  harm  than  good.  Try  something  else ;  get  some 
one  to  lend  you  a  yacht,  and  go  ofi"  to  the  Mediterranean." 

Hector  laughed  a  harsh  grating  laugh. 

"  Rare  good  thing,  the  deck  of  a  yacht,  when  you  want  to 
get  out  of  yourself!     Try  again,  Benyon." 

The  doctor  rose,  and  came  round  to  where  Hector  was  sit- 
ting. 

"  My  pulse,  eh  ?"  (anticipating  him).  "  There  you  are  ; 
and  my  tongue  is  quite  at  your  service." 

Mr.  Benyon  sat  down  in  front  of  him,  looking  gravip,  and 
said,  quietly, — 

"  This  won't  do :  you  can't  stand  this  sort  of  game  much 
longer." 

"  No,"  replied  Hector,  coolly :  "  I  shall  be  in  the  lake  w'th 
the  carp,  or  in  a  lunatic-asylum." 

"  I  should  not  wonder,"  said  Benyon,  calmly.  "  Your 
nerves  are  unstrung,  your  brain  is  over-excited,  and  both  are 
acting  most  injuriously  on  your  stomach." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  I  am  as  wise  as  that  myself  There  is 
only  one  chance  for  me :  give  me  of  the  waters  of  Lethe.     I 


376  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

haven't  tried  that  jet.  Your  chloral  and  morphia  will  poison 
me  quicker  than  brandy :  so  much  the  better." 

"  There  is  something  you  want  more  than  drugs  or  opiates." 

"  And  that  is  ?" 

"  A  little  common  sense.  Why,  what  the  deuce  !'"  cried  the 
doctor,  warmly,  "  a  cool-headed,  sensible  fellow  like  you  to  let 
anything  bring  you  to  this  state!  I  couldn't  have  believed  it 
of  you." 

"Could  you  not?  Suppose,  now"  (with  suppressed  fire), 
"  that  you  loved  a  woman  to  madness  and  felt  you  could  not 
live  without  her :  how  would  you  cure  yourself  of  your 
passion  ?" 

"  How  ?"  answered  Benyon,  promptly.  "  Why,  marry  her 
if  she  were  single,  or  run  away  with  her  if  she  were,  married." 

"  Ay,  but  suppose  she  was  free,  and  yet  no  earthly  means, 
neither  love,  mercy,  nor  pity,  would  make  her  consent  to  be 
yours  ?" 

"  Then  I  would  forget  her,"  rejoined  the  doctor,  stoutly. 

"  If  she  be  not  fair  for  me, 
What  care  I  how  fair  -he  be  ?" 

"  But  if  you  can't !"  cried  Hector,  passionately.  "  You 
say  I  am  a  cool-headed,  sensible  fellow :  do  you  suppose  I 
haven't  tried?  Tried!  good  God!  what  have  I  not  tried? 
perpetual  motion,  excess, — in  short"  (laughing  harshly),  "  all 
the  good  old  approved  remedies  for  the  disease." 

"  And  that  is  precisely  the  way  you've  brought  yourself  to 
your  present  condition.  Now,  I  don't  want  to  frighten  you, 
bub  it's  my  duty  to  tell  you  the  plain  truth  :  if  you  go  on  like 
this  you'll  bring  on  paralysis  or  softening  of  the  brain.  You 
must  make  an  effort  to  shake  it  off.  Occupy  your  mind  with 
something,  no  matter  what ;  take  a  fair  amount  of  exercise, 
without  overdoing  it ;  and,  above  all,  beware  of  stimulants.  I 
only  wish,"  said  Benyon^  smiling  and  laying  a  kind  hand  on 


NOT  TOLD  BY  DIANA.  377 

Lis  shoulder,  "  I  could  cure  you  right  oiF  by  giving  you  the 
young  lady  ;  only  perhaps  the  remedy  might  be  worse  than  the 
disease." 

"  The  girl  I  love  is  an  angel,"  said  Hector,  fiercely,  "  and  I 
would  give  every  acre  of  Alford  to  possess  her." 

"  I  talked  in  that  way  once,"  remarked  the  doctor,  ruefully. 
Report  said  his  lady  had  been  a  beauty  and  a  temper.  It 
said,  furthermore,  that  when  the  former  attribute  departed  it 
left  the  latter  in  greater  force  than  ever. 


CHAPTEE    XXXIX. 


NOT   TOLD   BY   DIANA. 


After  all,  Mr.  Benyon  came,  advised,  prescribed  in  vain. 
At  Sir  Hector's  request,  he  sent  him  an  opiate ;  but  instead 
of  soothing  it  excited  him  furiously  and  made  him  ten  times 
worse.  So  he  threw  physic  to  the  dogs,  and  led  the  same  life 
as  before,  getting  gradually  worse,  both  physically  and  men- 
tally. He  took  to  sitting  up  at  night,  and  reading  until  after 
the  fatal  hour  of  two ;  then  he  would  get  perhaps  three  hours 
of  feverish  sleep,  and  wake  again  oppressed  with  the  night- 
mare of  despair,  which,  if  anything,  is  almost  more  grievous 
in  the  morning-  than  in  the  night-watches. 

One  evening,  in  quest  of  something  fresh,  he  stumbled  upon 
a  book  of  curious  old  .stories,  or,  as  they  were  called,  chroni- 
cles, printed  in  old  French.  Glancing  over  it,  he  came  to  a 
page  on  which  he  read, — 

"  The  story  of  the  sad  knight,  who  for  a  woman's  sake  did 
put  an  end  unto  his  life." 

32* 


378  FOR   A    WOMAN'S  SAKE 

"That  might  suit  uie,"  he  thought,  grimly,  as  he  carried 
the  book  to  his  smoking-room.  And  there  he  read,  detailed 
with  much  circumlocution,  how  the  sad  knight  was  betrothed 
in  his  boyhood  to  his  cousin,  who  was  the  fairest  among 
maidens.  And  they  grew  up  together,  and  ever  as  the  days 
went  by  he  loved  her  with  a  deeper  and  greater  devotion. 
And  she,  though  she  had  aftectiun  unto  him  as  unto  a  brother, 
had  no  other  love  to  give  him,  and  this  she  most  frequently 
put  before  him,  and  did  most  urgently  entreat  him  that  he 
would  not  press  a  marriage  upon  her  which  would  be  hateful 
unto  her.  Then  one  day  he  came  suddenly  upon  her  and  said, 
"  I  have  come  to  claim  you,  since  if  I  do  not  presently  have 
you  for  my  own  I  needs  must  die."  Then  the  maiden 
answered  him  in  grief  and  scorn,  "  Since,  then,  one  of  us 
must  die,  for  if  you  die  without  me  I  shall  die  with  you,  draw 
now  your  sword  and  fclirust  it  here  into  my  heart." — "  If  you 
love  not  me,"  he  made  sorrowful  answer,  "  it  is  because  you 
love  another." — "And  if  it  be  sol"  she  cried;  "must  he 
needs  die  too  ?  0  valiant  knight,  you  who  can  slay  others, 
can  you  not  slay  your  own  desire,  and  make  glad  two  hearts 
that  love  each  other?" — "  Grod's  death  !"  he  cried,  in  wrath, 
"  prate  not  to  me  of  your  loves !"  and  he  turned  and  left  her 
with  a  sore  heart. 

Then  wist  he  not  what  to  do,  since  his  pain  was  so  great 
and  bitter  it  went  not  from  him  either  by  day  or  night,  and 
in  those  things  where  before  he  had  taken  pleasure  he  found 
no  joy.  Then  said  he  to  himself,  "Why  should  I  spare  my 
life,  that  is  no  longer  aught  but  grief  and  pain  ?  I  will  to  the 
wars,  and  there  for  her  sake  will  I  get  myself  slain." 

Then  he  sought  once  more  the  damsel,  and  said  unto  her, 
"  Fare  you  well,  cruel  one,  since  you  will  have  none  of' my 
love  !" — "  Nay,"  the  maiden  answered,  moved  to  pity  at  sight 
of  his  grieved  countenance,  "  go  not  away.  Nay,  where  will 
you  go  ?"     And  he  answered,  "  Did  I  not  tell  you  that  I 


NOT  TOLD  BY  DIANA.  379 

needs  must  die  without  you?  I  go  unto  my  death!" — 
"  Nay,"  she  cried,  again,  weeping,  "  but  let  me  rather,  die ! 
Of  what  avail  is  my  life  ?"  and  therewith  she  wrung  her 
hands.  "  Fare  you  well,  cruel  one !"  said  the  knight,  with 
one  grieved  look  at  her.  "  When  my  mother  shall  come  to 
you  and  say,  '  Where  is  my  son  ?'  you  shall  make  answer, 
'  He  lies  dead  in  a  strange  land,  and  all  for  a  woman's  sake  !' " 
Then  while  the  maiden  still  wept  sore,  and  wrung  her  hands, 
the  sad  knight  rode  away. 

Then,  when  a  few  months  were  sped,  came  his  squire, 
bearing  a  lock  of  his  hair  all  steeped  in  his  gore,  and  said, 
"  Damsel,  my  master  bid  me  cut  this  hair  from  his  head  as  he 
lay  a-dying,  and  carry  it  to  you,  and  say,  'I  lie  dead  in  a 
strange  land,  and  all  for  a  woman's  sake.  When  you  joy 
with  the  knight  whom  you  love,  look  awhiles  on  this  and 
think  of  me.'  " 

Then  was  the  maiden  sore  grieved,  and  wept  many  tears ; 
but  anon  came  her  own  true  love,  and  they  were  wed. 

Thus  briefly  concluded  the  tale  of  the  sad  knight. 

"  Anon  came  her  own  true  love,  and  they  wore  wed,"  re- 
peated Hector,  bitterly,  closing  the  book  and  flinging  it  on  the 
table.  A  new  idea  came  to  him  as  he  sat  moodily  contem- 
plating the  dying  embers.  If  life  was  so  grievous  to  him, 
why  should  not  others  be  glad?  Involuntarily  crept  in  the 
thought  of  Diana  mistress  here, — Diana  happy, — Diana  his 
brother's  wife,  whilst  he  lay  dead  and  forgotten,  God  knows 
where.  "  Never  !  never !"  he  cried,  between  his  teeth,  in  a 
paroxysm  of  furious  jealousy.  All  night  long  the  two  sciii- 
tences  ring  in  his  ears,  and  all  the  day  following,  and  the 
nights  and  days  afterwa,rds.  lie  lies  dead  in  a  strange  land, 
and  all  for  a  woman  s  saJce.  But  anon  came  her  oion,  true 
love,  and  the?/  were  wed. 

A  furious  battle  begins  to  rage  in  his  heart.  Shall  he  throw 
away  the  life  he  hates  so  bitterly,  and  in  throwing  it  away 


3o0  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

secure  Diana's  happiness?  The  thought  of  her  becoming 
Charlie's  is  utter  agony  to  him ;  he  feels  somehow  as  though, 
were  he  even  lying  dead  a  thousand  miles  away,  he  would 
know  it,  and  be  tortured  with  jealousy.  But  "  for  her  sake, 
for  her  sake!"  he  goes  on  saying  to  himself;  "to  make  her 
happy!  I  could  not  live  and  see  her  his,"  he  tells  himself; 
"or  it  would  be  easy  enough  to  give  him  half  my  income  and 
let  him  marry  her."  But  from  that  thought  his  whole  soul 
revolts.  Not  while  he  lives  ;  not  while  he  lives.  Then  comes 
another  thought.  Suppose,  for  her  sake,  he  slipped  out  of  that 
life  which  day  by  day  was  becoming  more  and  more  unbearable, 
and  after  all  his  brother  did  not  marry  her, — did  not  perhaps 
care  for  her  ?     He  must  provide  against  that. 

Day  by  day  he  became  more  worn,  more  ghastly-looking, 
and  day  by  day  Lady  Montagu's  anxiety  about  him  took 
greater  proportions.  Christmas  had  gone,  the  new  year  was 
here, — the  new  year  that  to  Hector  was  worse,  far  worse  than 
blank.  Again  Lady  Montagu  sent  for  Mr.  Benyon.  In  her 
alarm  she  confided  to  him  a  secret  that  had  always  been  very 
carefully  kept  by  the  family.  Two  generations  back,  one  of 
the  then  baronet's  sons  had  taken  his  life  with  his  own  hand. 

"  I  don't  know  why,"  she  murmurs,  looking  with  fearful 
eyes  into  the  doctor's  face,  "  but  that  story  has  haunted  me  of 
late.  Hector  looks  so  wild  sometimes.  Oh,  Mr.  Benyon  !" 
(with  terrible  earnestness)  "  you  don't  think " 

"  No,  no,  no  1"  he  interrupts  her ;  "  no  need  to  worry  your- 
self with  such  thoughts  as  those.  I  am  afraid  I  can't  do  very 
much  for  him,  because  he  won't  mind  what  I  say.  I'll  speak 
to  him  again,  if  you  like,  and  try  to  frighten  him  a  little  about 
himself.     The  lest  thing  he  could  do  would  be  to  go  up  to 

London  and  consult  Gr ;  and,  if  you  could  persuade  him 

to  stay  there  a  little  while,  change  and  cheerful  company  would 
do  more  for  him  than  all  the  physic  that  was  ever  concocted." 

"  Do  see  him  !  pray,  pray  do  your  best  to  persuade  him  !" 


NOT   TOLD  BY  DIANA.  ^1 

cries  the  anxious  mother.  "  He  is  in  the  house  now  ;  and,  if 
you  can  manage  it,  see  me  again  before  you  leave." 

Mr.  Benyon,  who  knows  his  way  as  well  about  Alford  as 
he  does  about  his  own  snug  little  house,  goes  to  the  smoking- 
room,  and  finds  there  the  person  he  is  in  search  of. 

"  Well,  Benyon,"  says  Hector,  with  a  hollow  attempt  at 
gayety,  "  have  you  come  to  have  another  try  at  the  '  mind 
diseased'  ?  Confession's  good  for  the  soul.  I've  thrown  your 
'  physic'  to  the  dogs,  and  if  you  send  me  any  moi"e  it  will  all 
go  the  same  way, — figuratively,  not  literally.  Poor  brutes ! 
I've  too  much  regard  for  them  !" 

"  I  have  come,  as  I  came  before,"  answers  Benyon,  bethink- 
ing himself  of  a  new  plan,  "  because  your  mother  sent  for  me. 
I  can  tell  you  one  thing :  anxiety  on  your  account  will  soon 
make  her  ill,  and  then  you'll  have  to  forget  yourself  and  nurse 
her." 

"  Poor  mother  !"    answers  Hector ;  "  what  is  she  afraid  of? 

Does  she  think  I'm  going  into  a  decline,  or  does  she  fancy • 

I'll  lay  a  hundred  to  one,"  he  cries,  looking  keenly  at  the  doc- 
tor, "  she's  been  raking  up  a  little  old  family  story  for  your 
benefit ;  eh,  Benyon  ?" 

Thus  attacked,  the  doctor  feels  a  little  confused. 

"  Women  are  always  nervous,"  he  answers,  evasively  ;  "  but, 
upon  my  life,  you  are  enough  to  make  any  one  nervous,  with 
your  long,  cadaverous  face.  Why,  I  thought  you  were  more 
of  a  man." 

"So  my  mother  thinks  of  that,  does  s^■^e  ?"  says  Hector, 
musingly.  "What  a  ridiculous  idea!"  (laughing  harshly). 
"  Fancy  doing  oneself  out  of  twelve  thousand  a  year,  and  all 
for  a  womans  sake.  Come,  Benyon,  you  don't  think  me 
quite  such  a  fool  as  that?" 

"  Indeed  I  don't,"  he  returns,  heartily  ;  "  if  I  did,  I  should 
send  for  a  strait-waistcoat  at  once.  But  at  the  same  time" 
(gravely),  "  if  the  sanest  man  in  the  world  plays  the  devil 


382  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

with  his  nerves  and  constitution  as  you're  doing,  there's  no 
answering  for  the  consequences.  Come"  (clapping  him  on 
the  shoulder),  "  I'm  very  much  in  earnest  just  now,  I  promise 
you  ;  it's  no  use  mincing  matters,  you're  in  a  bad  way,  a  very 
bad  way.     I  want  to  frighten  you, — I  only  wish  to  heaven  I 

could  !    Pack  your  traps  and  go  off  to  London  and  see  G ; 

look  up  some  of  your  friends,  and  don't  be  in  any  hurry  to 
come  back.  My  advice  is  sincere,  you  may  depend"  (laugh- 
ing), "  for  it's  very  much  against  my  own  interest.  If  you 
stop  here,  you'll  have  a  fine  long  illness,  and  put  I  don't  know 
how  much  into  my  pocket." 

"  Very  well,"  Hector  answers,  docilely,  to  the  great  surprise 
of  his  friend.  "  I  dare  say  you're  right.  I'll  be  oif  to-mor- 
row ;  you  may  tell  my  mother  so.  No  doubt  she  is  waiting, 
God  bless  her !  to  pounce  upon  you  as  soon  as  you  go  out  of 
here.  And  make  her  mind  easy  ;  be  sure  you  make  her  mind 
easy.  Tell  her  I'm  as  sane  as  you  are,  and  add  any  little 
anecdote  (you  must  know  lots)  of  men  who  have  gone  rather 
to  the  dogs  at  first  for  a  woman's  sake,  but  who  invariably  came 
back.  Good-by ;  it's  very  kind  and  good-natured  of  you  to 
bother  yourself  so  much  about  me,  and  this  time  you  see  it 
has  not  been  in  vain." 

Benyon  shakes  him  by  the  hand  and  wishes  him  a  hearty 
God  speed ;  but  he  goes  out  more  puzzled  than  satisfied. 
Nevertheless,  he  is  able  to  set  Lady  Montagu's  mind  at  rest. 

Hector,  left  to  himself,  sits  for  full  an  hour  absorbed  in 
deepest  thought.  Then,  with  a  long  sigh,  as  of  a  man  who 
has  at  last  made  a  difficult  resolve,  he  rises  and  goes  out.  In 
turn  he  visits  the  gardens,  hothouses,  stables,  kennels,  and  to 
every  man  he  gives  a  pleasant  word,  to  every  animal  a  caress. 
It  is  as  though  he  were  going  on  a  long  journey,  whence  he 
might  never  return,  and  that  melancholy  steals  over  him  .which 
always  attends  the  thought  that  one  is  doing  something  for 
the  last  time  even  though  it  be  somethino-  that  we  care  little 


NOT   TOLD   BY  DIANA.  383 

for.  At  dinner  Lady  Montagu  finds  him  brighter  and  more 
cheerful  than  lie  has  been  for  a  long  time,  and  thinks  with 
inward  congratulation  that  she  has  done  well  in  sending  for 
Beuyon. 

"  I  am  so  glad,  my  dear,  that  you  have  decided  upon  seeing 

G ,"  she  says ;  "  he  is  certain  to  do  you  good.     And  be 

sure  you  do  not  hurry  home  on  my  account,  because  you  fancy 
I  shall  be  dull.  Henrietta  and  her  boy  are  coming  to  me  on 
Saturday  for  a  fortnight,  and  will  not,  I  dare  say,  be  in  any 
great  haste  to  leave." 

Hector  glances  wistfully  at  the  sweet  kind  face  that  beams 
upon  him  with  such. anxious  love,  and  looks  away  again,  lest 
the  sight  of  it  should  unman  him.  Who  knows?  after  to- 
morrow its  tenderness  may  never  shine  upon  him  any  more  in 
this  world.  After  he  has  wished  her  good-night,  he  goes  to 
his  room  and  spends  some  hours  in  looking  over  and  arranging 
papers.  Then  he  makes  a  draft  of  a  will.  He  has  some 
money  of  his  own,  and  that  he  leaves  entirely  for  the  benefit 
of  the  poor  of  Alford.  When  this  is  finished,  he  fetches  the 
old  book  of  chronicles  and  opens  it  at  the  story  of  the  sad 
knight.  With  his  pen  he  draws  a  line  down  each  margin  of 
the  whole  story,  and  under  the  two  sentences,  "  He  lies  dead 
in  a  strange  land,  and  all  for  a  woman's  sake,"  "  But  anon 
came  her  own  true  love,  and  they  were  wed,"  he  scores  two 
deep  lines.  Then  he  wraps  the  book  in  paper,  and  writes 
upon  it,  "  For  my  sister-in-law,  if  she  be  called  Diana."  This 
done,  he  folds  it  in  another  sheet,  upon  which  he  writes, 
"  For  my  sister-in-law  when  my  brother  marries.  It  is  my 
express  desire  that  it  should  not  be  opened  before  that 
time." 

Next  day  he  bids  farewell  to  his  mother.  He  has  promised 
himself  that  he  will  not  betray  any  emotion  at  parting  from 
lier,  but  lie  has  a  hard  task  to  master  his  emotion.  A  strong 
impulse  comes  over  him  to  kneel  down  before  her  and  ask  her 


384  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

blessing ;  but  tbat  migbt  save  bim  from  himself !  He  con- 
trols himself  with  a  stern  eflPort,  so  stern  that  it  even  makes 
bis  leave-taking  seem  cold.  The  poor  mother,  never  dream- 
ing what  is  in  his  heart,  wishes  regretfully  to  herself  that  he 
was  more  demonstrative, — more  like  Charlie. 

The  iron  horse  speeds  him  swiftly  on  his  way  to  London  : 
as  it  rushes  along  be  takes  note  of  all  the  familiar  landmarks, 
and  bids  them  a  silent  farewell,  as  be  did  to  everything  at 
Alford  yesterday.  His  plans  are  vague  as  yet:  be  intends 
going  abroad,  but  how  and  where  be  leaves  chance  to  decide. 
The  following  day  he  goes  to  consult  the  eminent  physician. 
The  eminent  physician  receives  him  with  great  suavity,  that 
deepens  into  seriousness  as  be  asks  certain  questions  and 
receives  the  answers. 

"  Your  nervous  system,"  he  tells  Hector,  "  is  considerably 
disordered,  very  considerably  disordered.  The  first  thing  that 
is  necessary  is  for  the  mind  to  be  at  rest.  There  must  be  no 
mental  disturbance  of  any  kind  :  perfect  freedom  from  all 
anxiety  is  what  you  want, — what  you  imist  have." 

It  is  very  odd  how  doctors,  who  it  is  to  be  supposed  are 
subject  to  the  cares  and  anxieties  tbat  beset  other  folk,  will 
glibly  prescribe  repose  to  the  tortured  mind  as  though  it  were 
a  tonic  mixture  that  could  be  made  up  at  the  chemist's. 

"  A  moderate  amount  of  gayety,"  the  eminent  physician 
continues,  "  plenty  of  cheerful  society,  horse-exercise,  an  occa- 
sional visit  to  the  theatre  if  the  atmosphere  is  not  too  trying 
to  your  bead, — in  short,  my  dear  sir,  I  advise  you  for  the 
next  few  months  to  devote  yourself  to  the  study  of  how 
you  can  make  life  most  agreeable.  At  the  same  time,  I  think 
I  can  give  you  something  tbat  will  soothe  the  stomach  and 
nerves,  and  in  a  week  or  ten  days'  time  I  hope  to  sec  you  a 
different  man."  And,  having  written  out  a  short  prescrip- 
tion, he  hands  it  to  Hector  and  bids  bim  a  bland  "  Good- 
day." 


NOT  TOLD   BY  DIANA.  385 

Hector  pockets  the  prescription,  nor  ever  looks  at  it  again. 
He  has  sought  the  great  man's  advice  to  please  his  mother, 
calculating  pretty  well  what  it  would  be.  In  his  case  it  was 
as  easy  to  carry  out  as  though  he  had  recommended  one  of  his 
own  farm-laborers  to  eat  meat  three  times  a  day  and  wash  it 
down  with  generous  wines. 

His  nest  visit  was  to  his  lawyer,  to  get  his  will  drawn  up. 
Then  he  went  to  his  club.  As  chance  would  have  it,  the  fir'st 
man  he  met  was  one  whom  he  had  not  seen  for  years,  but  wlio, 
in  days  gone  by,  had  been  his  greatest  friend.  Hector  laughed, 
and  felt  cheerful, — the  first  time  for  many  weeks. 

"  I'm  oflf  to  Naples  in  my  yacht  the  day  after  to-morrow," 
said  Captain  Baring.  "  I  can't  stand  this  infernal  climate  in 
the  winter.  What  on  earth's  the  good  of  living  in  a  pea-soup 
atmosphere,  and  having  your  nose  frost-bitten,  when  you  can 
bask  in  glorious  sunshine  among  orange-groves,  have  a  rosebud 
for  every  withered  violet  here,  and  look  at  blue  skies  and  seas 
from  sunrise  to  sunset  ?  I  wish  to  heaven  I  could  persuade 
you  to  come  with  me,  old  fellow ;  but  I  suppose,  with  all  your 
new  cares  and  responsibilities,  there's  no  chance  of  your  getting 
away,  eh?" 

"I  don't  know  that,"  replied  Hector,  seeing  the  opportunity 
he  wanted  unfolding  before  him. 

"  You  look  thundering  bad,  my  dear  fellow, — I  can  tell  you 
that,"  proceeded  the  other,  eagerly.  "  I  never  saw  a  fellow 
so  changed  !  A  trip  with  me  would  be  the  thing  of  all  others 
to  set  you  up.     Come,  sSy  the  word." 

"  Very  well,  I  will  go,"  Hector  answered,  coming  to  a  rapid 
decision.  "  Many  thanks  for  the  offer.  I  was  thinking  of 
going  off  abroad  somewhere." 

"  By  Jove  !  how  glad  I  am  to  have  stumbled*  across  you  !" 
cried  Captain  Baring,  heartily.  "  We'll  dine  at  Southampton 
to-morrow  night,  and  go  on  board  the  first  thing  in  the  mora- 
ine;" 


386  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

So,  after  a  little  more  talk,  tliey  part:  the  time  is  short, 
and  each  has  plenty  to  do  before  starting.  There  is  one  thing 
Hector  dreads  and  shrinks  from  utterly:  it  is  the  meeting 
■with  his  brother.  And  yet  it  must  take  place.  There  are 
some  words  that  must  be  said  between  them, — words  which 
will  perhaps  decide  the  future  of  both.  He  is  on  his  way  to 
Colonel  Montagu's  rooms,  when  he  meets  him  coming  up  the 
street. 

"  PIullo,  Hector,  you  up  in  town  !"  he  cries ;  and  then, 
quickly,  "  By  Jove !  how  bad  you  look !  What  have  you 
been  doing  to  yourself?" 

"  I  am  going  abroad  on  Saturday,  with  Baring,"  says  Hec- 
tor, not  answering  the  questions  put  to  him.  '•  I  rather  want 
to  see  you  before  I  go.     Shall  I  find  you  to-night?" 

"  I  was  going  to  dine  with  Bagot,  but  I  can  put  him  off. 
Where  will  you  dine  ? — at  the  Garrick  ? — or  shall  we  try  the 
new  restaurant  ?" 

"  Do  you  ever  dine  at  your  own  place  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes.  Gunter  will  send  me  anything  I  want.  Do  you 
particularly  wish  to  dine  there  ?" 

"  I  should  prefer  it." 

"  All  right.     I  suppose  eight  will  do  you  ?" 

"  Any  time  you  like." 

"  I  wonder  what  the  deuce  he  wants  with  me  I"  thinks 
Colonel  Montagu,  as  he  goes  on  his  way  up  St.  James's  Streel. 


NOT  TOLD    BY  DIANA.  387 


CHAPTER    XL. 


NOT   TOLD   BY   DIANA. 


The  tcte-d-tete  dinner  was  not  the  most  clieerfnl  one  imagi- 
nable, though  Colonel  Montagu  did  the  honors  pleasantly,  as  he 
always  did  everything,  and  Hector  would  fain  have  shaken  off 
the  constraint  that  oppressed  him.  He  wanted  to  feel  kindly 
towards  his  brother,  since  it  was  perhaps  the  last  time  they 
would  ever  dine  together.  Both  were  glad  when  it  was  over, 
and  they  adjourned  to  the  other  room. 

"  Isn't  it  rather  a  shame  to  smoke  here  ?"  asked  Hector, 
doubtfully,  as  Charlie  handed  him  the  box  of  cigars. 

Looking  round  at  the  delicate  satin  furniture,  it  seemed 
more  than  rather  a  shame ;  but  Colonel  Montagu  answered, 
carelessly,  "  It  won't  hurt,  once  in  a  way  !"  He  buried  him- 
self in  one  of  the  inviting  chairs  by  the  fee,  and  motioned 
Hector  to  take  the  other.  It  was  a  comfort  to  both  that  their 
cigars  obviated  the  necessity  of  making  conversation :  so  Charlie 
drifted  into  his  usual  pleasant  sense  of  hien-etre  before  the  warm 
blaze  of  the  fire,  surrounded  on  all  sides  by  the  charm  of  beau- 
tiful objects,  and  Hector  gave  the  sad  and  morbid  fancies  rein 
to  which  he  had  of  late  become  a  slave.  Presently  his  eyes 
wandered  to  his  brother's  handsome,  indolent  face,  and  thence 
to  the  costly  toys  with  wliich  he  hud  been  pleased,  in  careless 
luxury,  to  strew  his  rooms.  Then  he  pictured  him  to  himself 
master  at  Alford,  gay,  happy,  surrounded  by  love  and  friend- 
ship, utterly  forgetful  of  the  brother  who  had  yielded  up  his 
birthright  to  him  and  gone  away  to  die  in  a  foreign  land. 
Why  not  ?    It  was  not  for  Ms  sake  he  was  relinquishing  a  life 


388  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

that  only  seemed  fair  and  enviable  to  the  outside  world  because 
they  knew  nothing  of  the  supreme  agony  of  the  canker-worm's 
tooth  in  the  heart. 

"  0  God!"  he  groaned  to  himself,  "  what  have  I  done  that 
thou  shouldst  make  this  difference  between  us?  —  that  he 
should  have  all  the  love,  all  the  desirable  things  of  life,  and  I 
not  even  the  husks  ?" 

So  heavy  a  sigh  escaped  him  that  his  brother  looked  up. 

"  My  good  fellow,"  he  said,  laughing,  "  don't  do  that  again, 
or  you  will  blow  all  the  lights  out.  What  the  deuce  is  the 
matter  with  you  ?  Yoii  haven't  got  any  debts  or  anxieties, 
1/ou  are  not  nightmare-ridden  with  the  thought  of  having  to 
mari-y  an  heiress :  why  on  earth  should  ?/ou  sigh  ?" 

"Apropos!"  uttered  Hector;  "have  you  proposed  to  her 

yet?" 

"  What  a  cold-blooded  fellow  you  are !  You  ask  if  the 
awful  and  momentous  question  that  is  to  doom  me  to  a  life  of 
wretchedness  has  been  put,  as  you  might  ask  if  I  had  ordered 
dinner.  No,  I  have  not  proposed,  and,  upon  my  soul,  I  don't 
think  I  shall !  Old  Adolphus  Fitz-Rex  is  dying  for  her  money, 
and,  by  Jove,  he  may  have  it  for  me  !" 

Hector  made  no  reply.  Presently  he  said,  nerving  himself 
to  a  great  effort, — 

"  I  am  going  to  ask  you  something  that  will  very  likely  sur- 
prise you.  Give  me  a  candid  answer,  if  you  can :  don't  be 
afraid !  I'm  not  laying  a  pitfall  for  you.  Do  you,  did  you 
ever,  care  anything  about  Diana  Carew  ?  If  she  had  had 
money,  or  you  had  been  an  elder  instead  of  a  younger  sou, 
would  you  ever  have  thought  of  marrying  her?" 

To  conceal  his  agitation  Hector  spoke  in  a  hard,  rasping 
voice,  that,  despite  his  assurance  to  the  contrary,  made  Charlie 
suspect  a  snare. 

"  I  have  kept  my  word  to  you  faithfully,"  he  answered,  in 
rather  an  injured  voice.     "  I   avoided   her  studiously  when 


NOT  TOLD  BY  DIANA.  389 

she  was  in  town,  and  at  the  Desboroughs',  where  I  had  no  idea 
of  meeting  her  until  the  day  she  came.  I  never,  by  look  or 
word,  infringed  the  promise  that  you  wrung  from  me  over  our 
father's  death-bed.  And"  (sighing  as  he  knocked  the  ash  off 
his  cigar)  "  it  might  have  been  an  easy  enough  task  for  you, 
but  I  would  not  go  through  it  again  to  have  my  debts  paid 
twice  over.  You  may  be  sure  of  one  thing"  (with  unwonted 
bitterness) :  "  when  she  is  Lady  Montagu,  you  won't  be  troubled 
with  much  of  my  company  at  Alford." 

"  Then  you  do  care  for  her  ?"  uttered  Hector,  in  a  deep, 
low  voice. 

"  Care  for  her  !''  cried  Charlie,  springing  up  and  striding 
down  the  room.  "  Care  for  her  1  If  I  hadn't  been  such  an 
infernal  fool  as  to  make  you  that  promise,  I'd  have  reformed 
my  bad  habits  and  married  her  before  this,  poor  as  I  am  !" 

Hector  suppressed  a  sigh.  The  old  sentence  returned 
forcibly  to  his  mind  :  "  But  anon  came  her  own  true  love, 
and  they  were  wed." 

It  was  a  most  unusual  thing  to  see  his  indolent  brother  so 
excited ;  there  could  be  no  doubt  about  his  sincerity.  Al- 
though it  was  the  chief  part  of  Hector's  plan  that  he  should 
love  and  marry  Diana,  a  bitter  pang  crossed  his  heart. 

"  I  wonder,"  remarked  the  Guardsman,  resuming  his  scat 
and  his  composure,  and  feeling  a  little  bit  ashamed  of  the 
ebullition, — "  I  wonder  why  you  amused  yourself  by  trotting 
me  out  on  the  subject  ?  it  was  not  particularly  magnanimous, 
when  you've  got  all  the  playing-cards  in  your  own  hand." 

"  You  said  when  you  met  me  to-day  that  I  was  looking 
bad,"  replied  Hector,  with  apparent  irrelevancy.  "I  have 
licard  that  remark  ad  nanseam  lately.  Well,  it  is  true 
enough.  Heaven  knows  I  don't  feel  much  better  than  I  look, 
and  I  have  a  sort  of  presentiment  that  I  shall  not  come  back 
from  the  journey  I  am  starting  on  to-morrow." 

"Pshaw!"  exclaimed  Colonel  Montagu;  "presentiments! 
33* 


390  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

If  ever  tliere  was  a  man   above  that  sort  of  tomfoolery,  I 
should  have  thought  it  was  you." 

"  I  have  a  presentiment,"  repeated  Hector,  in  a  deep,  low 
voice,  and  with  a  haggard  glance  at  his  brother,  "  that  I  shall 
never  come  hack  from  this  journey ^ 

"■  Why,  my  dear  old  fellow,"  cried  Charlie,  kindly,  "  I  shall 
begin  to  think  there  is  something  very  wrong  with  you,  if  you 
talk  such  stuff  as  that.  Why,  what  the  deuce  is  there  to  kill 
you  in  a  trumpery  little  voyage  to  Naples  and  back  ?  Bar- 
ing's too  good  a  judge  to  trust  himself  in  a  yacht  he  does  not 
know,  or  I'm  much  mistaken." 

"  It  isn't  that,"  Hector  answered,-'with  a  troubled  glance 
into  the  fire. 

"What  is  it,  then?  Do  you  translate  Vede  Napoli  e  poi 
morir  into  an  obligation  to  die  as  soon  as  you  have  set 
eyes  on  it?  What  are  you  afraid  of?  Roman  fever,  or 
brigands,  or  of  being  engulfed  by  a  new  eruption  of  Vesu- 
vius ?" 

"  Never  mind,"  answered  Hector,  wearily  :  "let  me  get  to 
what  I  want  to  say.  Siqypose  I  do  not  return  :  will  you  give 
me  your  word  of  honor  to  marry  Diana  Carew  ?" 

Charlie  looked  at  his  brother  with  serious  anxiety.  He 
began  to  think  his  mind  was  unhinged,  and  said  to  himself  it 

might  be  a  good  plan  to  go  to  Gr next  morning  and  hear 

what  really  was  the  matter  with  him. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  rising,  and  giving  Hector  a  friendly 
shake  of  the  shoulder,  "  pull  yourself  together,  and  don't  give 
way  to  this  sort  of  humbug.  You  don't  look  very  brilliant, 
certainly ;  but  I  don't  see  anything  to  alarm  yourself  about. 
A  couple  of  days  at  sea  will  set  you  on  your  legs  again. 
Come,  cheer  up  ! — this  is  unlike  your  usual  form." 

Hector  was  silent  for  a  moment ;  then  he  said,  in  a  calm 
quiet  voice    hat  was  habitual  to  him, — 

"  Talking  of  it  won't  kill  me.     I  may  come  back,  or  I  may 


NOT  TOLD  BY  DIANA.  391 

not ;  and  if  I  do  not,  I  want  to  be  sure  tliat  Diana  Carew  will 
be  Lady  Montagu." 

"  What  on  earth  ana  I  to  understand  ?"  asked  Colonel  Mon- 
tagu, looking  thoroughly  mystified.  "  First  by  threats  and 
promises  you  wring  from  me  an  engagement  neither  by  look 
nor  word  to  endeavor  to  gain  her  affection,  and  now  you  urge 
me  under  absurdly  hypothetical  conditions  to  marry  her.  If 
you  are  in  earnest,  why  not  say  at  once,  '  Go  and  marry  her, 
if  she  will  have  you'  ?  You  shall  not  have  to  speak  twice,  I 
promise  you." 

"  No,  no  !"  cried  Hector,  harshly.  "  You  are  still  bound 
by  your  promise.  My  death  alone  can  release  you.  Well,  I 
may  be  mad, — think  so  if  you  please,  but  humor  me  :  tell  me 
that  if  I  do  not  return  you  will  marry  her." 

"  All  right ;  I  promise,"  answered  Colonel  Montagu,  think- 
ing it  better  to  humor  him. 

"  Give  me  your  hand  on  it." 

Charlie  held  out  his  hand.  Hector  grasped  it  with  a  fever- 
ish one  that  convinced  his  brother  still  more  forcibly  there 
was  something  wrong. 

"  One  thing  more.  If  I  don't  come  back,  look  after  the 
poor  at  home,  and  do  something  for  them.  Hayter  will  show 
you  the  plans  of  all  I  intended  to  do ;  and  slie  knows,  she  will 
see  to  it  if  you  let  her  have  the  money.  Remember,  I  charge 
that  upon  you." 

Colonel  Montagu  felt  quite  cut  up  about  his  brother.  He 
did  not  believe  for  an  instant  in  the  fulfillment  of  his  presenti- 
ment, and  he  most  certainly  did  not  desire  it,  for  he  was  emi- 
nently kind-hearted  and  not  a  bit  envious.  He  was  really 
shocked  to  see  such  unusual  weakness  in  his  stern  self-con- 
tained brother,  and  resolved  not  only  to  see  G ,  but  to 

write  to  Baring  about  him. 

"  It  can't  hurt  you  to  promise  me  those  two  things,"  said 
Hector,  eagerly,  "and  I  shall  go  away  more  satisfied." 


392  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"  All  right,  then."  answered  Charlie,  "with  an  attempt  at 
gayety  ;  "  I  promise  both." 

Hector  rose  to  go. 

"  I'll  walk  with  you  as  far  as  Limmer's,"  volunteered  his 
brother,  feeling  rather  uncomfortable  about  him. 

"  Just  as  you  like,"  answered  Hector ;  then,  forcing  a  smile, 
"  you  need  have  no  doubt  as  to  my  sanity.  I  am  perfectly 
well  able  to  take  care  of  myself." 

"  I  shall  see  you  to-morrow,"  said  Charlie,  as  they  were 
parting,  feeling  an  unwonted  regret  at  bidding  his  brother 
good-by.  "  I'll  run  down  to  Southampton  with  you,  if  you 
like." 

"  I  have  a  hundred  things  to  do  :  it's  no  use  making  any 
appointment ;  and  as  for  going  down  to  Southampton,  it's  not 
to  be  thought  of." 

"  Well,  good-by  if  I  don't  see  you  again.  A  pleasant  trip, 
and  get  rid  of  your  blue  devils  before  you  come  back." 

"  Good-by."     And  the  brothers  clasped  hands  very  kindly. 

Colonel  Montagu  walked  home  thoughtfully.  For  a 
wonder,  he  neither  went  to  the  club  nor  yet  elsewhere,  but 
betook  himself  straight  to  his  own  rooms,  lighted  another 
cigar,  and  mused  over  the  strange  events  of  the  evening. 

''Hector's  in  a  deuced  bad  way, — poor  fellow!  I  never 
saw  a  man  so  altered.  I  suppose  it's  all  about  her :  he  has 
asked  her  again,  and  she  won't  have  him.  And  yet  he  is  the 
very  last  man  in  the  world  I  should  have  expected  to  see  so 
cut  up  about  a  woman.  I  can  understand  a  boy  like  Seldon 
taking  it  badly,  but  not  a  cool-headed,  unimpulsive  fellow  like 
Hector.  It  can't  be  all  that.  I've  heard  of  men  getting 
frightful  fits  of  the  blues  after  coming  suddenly  into  a  lot  of 
money.  I  don't  think  it  would  aifect  me  that  way.  Of 
course  nothing  will  happen:  presentiments  are  the  gi'eatest 
rot  in  the  world  ;  not  one  in  ten  thousand  ever  comes  true. 
When  I  rode  that  steeple-chase  three  years  ago,  I  had  a  pre- 


NOT  TOLD  BY  DIANA.  393 

sentiment  I  should  break  my  neck  ;  and  nothing  came  of  it. 
My  nerves  were  shaky  at  the  time ;  I  had  been  drinking 
rather  hard  just  before.  That  reminds  me.  I  never  saw 
Hector  drink  so  much  in  my  life  at  one  sitting  as  he  did  to- 
night,— gulped  it  down,  too,  as  if  he  did  not  care  for  it;  and 
there  is  no  better  in  the  cellars  at  home.  I'm  awfully  glad 
he  is  going  for  that  cruise :  nothing  like  it  for  bracing  the 
nerves :  he'll  be  back  in  a  couple  of  months  quite  himself 
again." 

Then  his  thoughts  turned  to  Diana. 

"I  wonder,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  if  she  does  care  for  me, 
or  whether  it's  only  my  own  stupid  conceit  that  makes  me 
fancy  so  ?  I  know  she  did  at  Alford  that  golden  day"  (sigh- 
ing). "  What  an  infernal  scoundrel  I  was  !  But  I  did  not 
really  care  for  her  then  as  I  did  here,  as  I  did  at  the  Dcs- 
boroughs'.  How  utterly  glad  I  was  when  she  refused  Sel- 
don ! — though,  poor  lad !  I  could  not  help  feeling  sorry  for 
him.  And  how  I  hated  poor  old  Jack  when  she  became 
friendly  with  him  !  I  would  not  go  through  that  cursed  time 
again  for  anything  in  the  world.  How  I  endured  it  I  don't 
know.  To  see  her  grieved,  indignant  fice,  and  to  have  to 
avoid  her,  and  seem  to  seek  the  society  of  that  plain,  common 
girl !  Marry  her !  Not  to  save  going  through  the  bank- 
ruptcy court  to-morrow.  Pah  !"  (with  a  gesture  of  intensest 
disgust.)  "  If  I  only  had  the  chance  of  winning  Diana  now ! 
How  she  must  despise  me !  What  should  she  feel  but  con- 
tempt for  me  ?  Not  more  than  I  do  for  myself,  I'll  answer. 
No,  I  know  how  it  will  be :  Hector  has  only  got  a  morbid 
fancy,  which  he  does  not  really  believe  in  himself,  else  he 
would  say,  '  Go  and  win  her  now  if  you  can.'  He  will  come 
back  all  right  again,  and  in  the  end  she  will  have  him.  /  have 
a  presentiment  of  that ;  I  had  all  along.  Oh,  what  a  fool  I 
was  not  to  take  her  when  I  could  have  had  her  !  I've  not 
got  so  much  pleasure  out  of  life  lately :  the  same  old  I'ound 


394  FOR   A    WOMAN  \S  SAKE. 

palls  upon  oue  after  a  time,  when  oue  lias  lost  the  power  of 
caring  for  fresh  faces,  as  I  have"  (sighing)  "since  I  knew 
her.  I  wonder  what  witchery  there  is  about  her  that  makes 
men  so  desperately  bad  about  losing  her  ?  She  does  not  set 
herself  up  as  being  better  than  other  women,  and  yet  there  is 
something  pure  and  sweet  about  her  one  can't  help  reveren- 
cing. Even  that  wicked  profligate,  old  Jack,  confessed  that 
she  made  him  want  to  be  i)ettcr.  I  suppose  I  must  leave  it 
now  until  Plector  comes  back ;  and  then.,  if  she  won't  have 
him " 

Here  the  entrance  of  a  friend  cut  short  his  soliloquy.  The 
second  morning  after.  Hector  was  standing  on  the  yacht's  deck, 
taking  a  silent  farewell  of  the  country  he  never  meant  to  see 
again.  The  voyage  did  him  good  in  one  way,  but  his  mind 
grew  steadily  worse :  the  monotony,  the  confinement  to  a 
narrow  space,  became  unbearable.  His  one  idea  had  been  to 
put  a  great  distance  between  himself  and  Diana ;  and,  now 
that  every  hour  took  him  farther  away  from  her,  he  was  filled 
with  an  insane  longing  to  see  her  once  again.  Anything  would 
have  been  better  than  this !  Why  had  he  not  been  cQptent 
with  her  friendship  ? — only  to  see  her  sometimes,  to  hear  her 
sweet  voice  speaking  kindly  to  him,  to  meet  the  friendly  glance 
of  her  beautiful  eyes, — surely  that  would  have  been  some 
comfort  to  his  misery,  even  though  she  would  never  consent 
to  be  his.  Sometimes  he  had  a  wild  thought  that  the  moment 
they  reached  Naples  he  would  travel  back  overland  as  fast  as 
steam  and  horses  could  take  him,  and  get  back  only  just  to  see 
her  once  again.  But  he  gave  up  that  idea  before  he  set  foot 
on  shore. 

The  day  after  they  arrived  at  Naples,  and  the  four  following 
ones,  there  was  a  bitter  northeast  wind, — colder,  more  piercing, 
than  any  he  had  ever  encountered  in  his  own  country. 

"Are  these  your  sunny  climes?"  he  laughed  grimly  to  his 
friend.     "  Of  the  two,  I  certainly  prefer  an  east  wind  in  Eng- 


NOT  TOLD  BY  DIANA.  395 

land ;  at  all  events,  we  know  how  to  keep  it  ow^side  the 
house." 

"  Too  infernal !"  answered  the  other,  disgustedly,  with  chat- 
tering teeth.  "  Upon  my  life,  I  wouldn't  have  believed  it  if 
any  one  else  had  told  me  it  of  Naples." 

They  drove  to  Pompeii  in  an  open  carriage  in  whirlwinds 
of  dust.  Hector  was  glad  to  do  anything  rather  than  remain 
quiet,  but  he  was  disappointed  in  the  place ;  the  houses  could 
not  have  been  much  bigger  than  dolls'  houses,  he  thought, 
and  there  was  nothing  to  inspire  him  with  any  ideas  of  by- 
gone luxury  or  splendor.  Perhaps  he  was  not  in  a  humor  „o 
be  pleased  or  surprised  by  anything.  He  would  have  liked  to 
see  Vesuvius  vomiting  flames  and  stones ;  but  it  lay  tranquil, 
with  one  tiny  smoke-wreath  that  looked  nothing  but  a  little 
fleecy  cloud  on  its  breast.  Life  seemed  more  abhorrent  to 
him  here,  in  the  cold,  among  the  squalor,  dirt,  and  wretched- 
ness of  Naples,  than  even  it  had  done  at  Alford  ;  he  wished  a 
thousand  times  he  had  not  left  home.  Why  not  go  back  now, 
he  thought,  sometimes,  and,  forcing  himself  to  forget  Diana, 
lead  r»,  life  of  usefulness?  He  had  come  here  to  die  ;  and  yet 
how  should  he  die  so  as  to  leave  no  suspicion  that  he  had  died 
by  his  own  hand  ?  There  was  only  one  person  in  the  world  he 
wished  to  be  aware  that  he  went  out  of  life  willingly ;  that 
was  the  one  for  whose  sake  he  meant  to  take  the  journey 
whence  there  is  no  return. 

If  any  one  had  told  him  his  own  story  a  year  ago,  told  it 
of  some  other  man,  he  would  have  given  his  verdict  at  once, 
"  The  man  was  mad."  But  it  never  occurred  to  him  now 
that  there  was  any  madness  in  what  he  contemplated.  What 
is  madness?  The  upsetting  of  the  mental  balance,  perhaps 
on  one  subject  alone ;  the  loss  of  the  power  to  look  at  things 
(one  thing,  perhaps)  as  the  rest  of  the  world  looks  at  them. 
There  was  no  cowardice  in  the  act  he  intended,  he  argued  to 
himself;  he  was  not  going  to  shake  off  life  simply  because  he 


396  FOR   A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

could  not  face  the  pain  of  it,  but  for  her  sake,  that  she  might 
be  happy  in  the  future.  He  did  not  tell  himself  that  he  had 
not  courage  to  see  her  happy  with  another  man,  that  the  only 
thing  which  could  reconcile  him  to  her  happiness  with  another 
was  that  when  it  came  he  would  be 

"  Out  of  the  multitude  of  things, 
Under  the  dust,  beneath  the  grass. 
Deep  in  dim  death,  where  no  thought  stings, 
No  record  clings. 
No  memory  more  of  love  or  hate, 
No  trouble,  nothing  that  aspires. 
No  sleepless  labor  thwarting  fate, 
And  thwarted;    where  no  travail  tires. 
Where  no  faith  fires." 

The  cold  winds  had  passed  away ;  one  could  understand 
now  the  meaning  of  Italian  skies  and  seas ;  the  flower-chil- 
dren ^vere  streaming  about  the  Chiaia,  and  choice  bouquets 
were  offered  right  and  left  to  the  passer-by  at  fabulously  small 
sums  according  to  English  ideas,  taking  into  consideration  the 
time  of  year  and  the  beauty  of  the  flowers.  They  were  going 
a  trip  along  the  coast  this  lovely  morning ;  there  was  a  fresh 
breeze,  although  it  was  hot  enough  for  the  dirty  ill-clad  laz- 
zaroiii  to  be  lying  about  basking  in  the  sun.  Hector  felt  a 
shade  less  miserable  this  morning ;  he  was  not  thinking  of 
death  ;  there  was  something  in  the  warmth,  coming  after  the 
bitter  cold,  in  the  blue  dancing  waters,  the  azure  skies,  the 
scent  and  sight  of  lovely  flowers,  that  made  even  bare  life  an 
almost  pleasant  fact.  His  friend,  who  had  been  sorely  puzzled 
and  pained  about  him,  remarked  the  change  with  genuine 
pleasure. 

"  Come,  old  fellow !"  he  cried,  heartily,  "  I  am  glad  to  see 
you  have  shaken  off  the  blues  at  last.  Thrown  'em  to  the 
sea  and  the  sky,  eh  ?"  And  he  laughed  cheerily  at  his  own 
little  joke. 

The  schooner  cut  smartly  through  the  waves,  with  the  wind 


NOT  TOLD   BY  DIANA.  397 

in  her  favor.  Captain  Baring  had  gone  below.  Hector  was 
on  deck,  looking  through  a  glass  at  the  lessening  town.  Sud- 
denly he  heard  a  cry  and  a  splash.  Kushing  to  the  side,  he 
saw  the  cabin-boy  beating  the  water  with  his  hands  and  shriek- 
ing for  help.  In  a  second  he  had  torn  off  his  outer  clothes, 
and,  shouting  "  Man  overboard  !"  jumped  into  the  sea.  He 
had  always  been  a  good  swimmer,  and  fond  of  it,  from  his 
Eton  days,  and  he  knew  the  lad  could  swim  but  little,  not 
enough  even  to  keep  up  until  the  boat  came  to  his  rescue. 
The  schooner  was  going  such  a  pace  that  even  before  the  boat 
could  be  lowered  she  would  be  a  good  way  off.  As  usual  in 
such  cases,  there  was  some  hitch  in  getting  it  down,  and  be- 
fore the  men  were  in  it  she  was  nearly  half  a  mile  off,  and 
the  wind  dead  against  them. 

"  Don't  catch  hold  of  me,  and  I'll  save  you  !"  shouted  Hec- 
tor to  the  boy,  as  he  swam  up  to  him.  "  Keep  going  as  long 
as  you  can,  and  when  you're  tired  I'll  hold  you  up.  Don't  lose 
your  head  :  there's  no  danger." 

At  this  moment  that  death  was  so  near  him.  Hector  never 
thought  of  it :  he  was  battling  for  life  with  the  instinct  of  a 
strong  man  :  he  meant  to  save  the  boy  and  himself  too.  It 
was  hard  work,  swimming  with  one  arm  and  holding  the  ter- 
rified, exhausted  lad  with  the  other :  the  minutes  whilst  the 
men  in  the  boat  were  straining  every  nerve  to  get  to  them 
seemed  hours.  They  are  coming  at  last,  thank  God  !  He 
cannot  hold  out  much  longer.  Now  they  are  within  four 
boat's-lengths.  A  sudden  deadly  agony  seizes  him  :  he  leaves 
go  the  lad  with  a  great  cry  of  anguish.  When  the  boat  comes 
up,  there  is  only  the  lad  strtiggling  alone  in  the  water.  Hec- 
tor is  nowhere  to  be  seen.  The  men  look  all  around,  and  then 
in  each  other's  faces,  with  a  stony  horror.  At  last  one  un- 
closes his  lips. 

"  Cramp  !"  he  says,  in  a  low  voice.  "  My  youngest  brother 
went  like  that." 

34 


398  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

And  so  Hector,  with  the  strange  irony  of  Fate,  went  out 
of  life  fighting  his  hardest  to  keep  it,  when  all  these  days  and 
weeks  past  he  had  been  longing  for  death  and  not  knowing 
how  or  where  to  find  it.  Yet  surely  Fate  was  kind ;  for,  if 
he  needs  must  die,  was  it  not  better  to  pass  out  of  life  gal- 
lantly rescuing  one  who  loved  and  clung  to  it,  and  with  no 
stain  on  his  name  or  on  his  own  soul ?  And  though  he  "  died  in 
a  foreign  land,"  and  remotely  it  might  be  said  "  for  a  woman's 
sake,"  since  but  for  her  he  would  not  have  come  there,  he 
died  actually  for  the  sake  of  a  little  friendless  lad,  who  with- 
out his  aid  would  have  been  sucked  down  by  the  blue  cruel 
waters.  And  surely  there  is  no  nobler  epitaph  can  be  writ 
over  a  man's  grave,  be  it  rudely  carved  on  perishable  wood  or 
graven  in  letters  of  gold  upon  stately  marble,  than  this:  "He 
gave  his  life  for  another."  * 


CHAPTEK   XL  I. 


DIANA  S  STORY. 


It  is  a  bright  day  in  February :  if  it  were  not  for  the  skel- 
eton-like appearance  of  the  trees,  whose  bare  branches  force 
themselves  unpleasantly  upon  the  eye,  one  might  fancy  it 
May.  The  wooing  of  the  joyous  birds  before  their  St.  Val- 
entine is  sweetly  noisy :  they  are  intensely  glad  of  Winter's 
death,  and  are  holding  a  spirited  wake  over  him.  Do  not  be 
too  sure  that  he  is  gone,  you  merry  little  souls :  there's  many 
a  nipping  night,  and  day  too,  in  store  for  you  before  your 
friend  the  Summer  shines  the  frost  away.  It  has  been  a 
happy  winter, — happy  as  life  ever  can  be  again,  I  think  to 
myself. 


DIANA'S  STORY.  399 

Curly  has  quite  recovered,  and  we  have  all,  papa  included, 
spent  a  delightful  week  at  Warrington,  where,  at  our  especial 
request,  there  was  no  party, — only  just  the  Fanes.  And  then 
they  (the  Fanes)  came  to  us  for  a  week,  for  now  we  have  come 
into  our  money  we  are  able  to  entertain  a  little, — in  a  very 
small  way,  of  course.  We  have  what  I  believe  people  who 
are  poor  generally  have,  and  what  the  rich  as  often  lack,  the 
sincere,  hearty  desire  to  make  our  friends  happy  and  comfort- 
able. We  poor  people  know  that  it  all  depends  upon  us 
whether  our  guests  enjoy  their  visit,  and  the  rich  are  too  apt  to 
trust  to  their  adventitious  circumstances  and  to  make  no  fur- 
ther eiFort.  We  have  an  extra  in-door  servant,  on  the  strength 
of  our  new  wealth,  and  a  real  groom,  who  does  not  help  in  the 
garden,  nor  do  anything  apart  from  his  own  domain,  except 
wait  at  dinner  when  we  have  visitors.  For  we  have  two 
saddle-horses  now,  and  Curly  and  papa,  or  Curly  and  I,  ride 
every  day.  Papa  is  a  different  being :  he  is  quite  bright  and 
cheerful,  and  when  he  is  out  with  us  Curly  and  I  are  tremen- 
dously proud  of  him ;  we  never  see  any  one  else  so  distin- 
o-uished-lookino;  or  who  talks  so  well. 

Money  is  a  very  pleasant  thing.  I  know  we  find  ours  so. 
It  is  a  real  delight  to  go  into  a  poor  cottage  now,  knowing 
that  where  help  is  wanted  one  can  give  it,  instead  of  coming 
out  heart-sick  and  heart-sore  because  one  has  so  little  to  bestow 
but  one's  exceeding  sympathy.  I  wonder  the  rich  do  not 
oftener  treat  themselves  to  the  pleasure  of  giving.  I  don't 
mean  by  sending  checks  to  charities,  but  by  going  among  the 
poor,  giving  the  gifts  with  their  own  hands,  and  seeing  for 
themselves  the  immense  happiness  it  causes.  How  it  would 
expand  their  hearts,  and  prevent  them  getting  choked  up  with 
selfishness!  There  is  no  pleasure  in  this  world  like  giving, 
of  that  I  am  quite  sure  ;  and  it  is  a  pleasure  with  which 
many  people  are  very  chary  of  indulging  themselves. 

I  have  forbidden  myself  to  think  about  my  love  since  Sep- 


400  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

tember.  when  its  utter  hopelessness  was  so  bitterly  proved  to 
me.  I  cannot  help  remembering  how  dearly  I  have  loved 
Colonel  Montagu,  and  right  well  I  know  that  I  shall  never 
again  love  mortal  man  with  the  same  love  wherewith  I  have 
loved  him.  Sometimes,  too,  a  troubled  thought  about  Hector 
has  crept  over  me.  I  have  fancied  that  I  might  have  been 
kinder,  showed  more"feeliug  for  him  ;  and  yet  I  could  never 
realize  that  he  was  capable  of  suffering  much  for  love's  sake. 
Once  Mr.  Warrington  said  at  dinner, — 

"  I  never  saw  a  fellow  so  changed  as  Montagu.  He  looks 
so  pale  and  fine-drawn,  and  rides  as  if  he  had  the  devil  behind 
him." 

Looking  up  at  the  moment,  I  catch  papa'a  eye  fixed 
earnestly  upon  me,  and  the  color  mounts  to  my  cheek,  and 
a  guilty  feeling  creeps  over  me. 

This  February  morning  I  am  standing  at  the  open  window, 
and  the  pug,  with  many  seductive  devices,  is  entreating  me 
to  go  out.  Anon  she  pulls  me  by  the  dress,  or,  jumping  up, 
catches  a  finger  playfully  in  her  mouth,  then  whines  and 
scratches,  lays  her  head  on  one  side,  and  says  with  her  eyes, 
as  plainly  as  any  human  being  could  say  it  with  his  tongue, 
"  Dear  little  mistress,  do,  do  come  out."  So,  presently,  being 
rather  a  slave  to  her,  I  pronounce  the  magic  words,  "  Come 
along,  dogs  !"  with  which  she  knows  I  never  deceive  her, 
and  with  one  bound  she  is  out  of  the  house  and  down  the 
gravel  walk.  Papa  is  coming  up  it,  and  she  wriggles  her  body 
fascinatingly  at  him  by  way  of  salutation.  Contrary  to  his 
usual  habit,  he  does  not  stop  to  talk  to  her  in  friendly  dog- 
language,  but  comes  straight  towards  me.  In  a  moment  I 
divine  by  his  face  that  there  is  something  wrong. 

"What  is  it?"  I  cry,  before  he  has  time  to  unclose  his  lips. 

"  I  have  just  heard  some  very  bad  news,"  he  answers. 

"  Curly !"  I  gasp,  turning  white  to  the  lips.  Why  do  one's 
terrors  always  run  upon  those  one  loves  best  ? 


DIANA'S  STORY.  401 

"  No,  no,  thank  God  ;  nothing  that  concerns  him.  Poor 
Sir  Hector  Montagu  has  been  drowned  in  the  Bay  of  Naples. 
I  did  not  even  know  he  was  abroad." 

A  chill  creeps  over  me, — a  great  sorrowful  pity  that  as  yet 
finds  no  words. 

"  Poor  fellow  !  he  died  saving  the  life  of  one  of  the  yacht's 
crew,  I  hear,"  continues  papa. 

Mechanically  I  turn  and  go  towards  the  house,  he  following 
me.  I  feel  horribly  shocked  by  this  news,  shocked  and  re- 
morseful as  though  in  some  measure  I  were  guilty  of  his 
death.  In  a  moment  everything  comes  back  to  me, — his  ten- 
derness towards  his  mother,  his  kindness  to  me,  his  goodness 
to  the  poor  :  what  will  become  of  tJiem  ?  And  then  involun- 
tarily my  thoughts  turn  to  his  successor. 

"  Poor  fellow  !"  utters  papa,  softly. 

Poor  fellow !  echoes  my  heait,  and  the  tears  rain  down  my 
face. 

"  What  will  the  poor  people  do  ?"  I  say,  speaking  my 
thoughts  aloud. 

"  I  hear  they  take  it  terribly  to  heart,"  answers  papa.  "  He 
was  such  a  good  fellow,  and  they  looked  to  his  doing  so  much 
for  them.  His  brother,  I  fear,  is  a  very  different  sort  of 
man." 

My  father's  unconscious  words  stab  me  to  the  quick,  all  the 
more  perhaps  bectfUse  of  the  truth  underlying  them. 

My  first  impulse  is  to  write  to  Lady  Montagu ;  but  when  I 
take  pen  in  hand  a  strange  difiidence  comes  over  me.  She 
must  know  about  his  coming  over  here,  for  she  has  never 
written  to  me  since.  If  I  was  the  cause,  the  unintentional 
cause,  God  knows,  of  his  going  abroad,  will  she  lay  his  death 
at  my  door  ?  The  very  thought  makes  me  shi'ink  with  pain 
and  self-reproach.  Yet  what  could  I  do  ?  Must  a  wouian 
not  dare  to  .refuse  a  man  she  cannot  love,  lest  some  evil 
chance  should  befall  him  for  which  she  must  evermore  after- 


402  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

wards  reproach  herself?  I  sit  down  to  my  painful  task,  and, 
as  best  I  may,  ponr  out  my  genuine  grief  and  sympathy, 
with  all  my  respect  and  admiration  for  her  dead  son's  good- 
ness. Many  a  tear  blots  the  paper  as  I  write :  so  grieved  am 
I  that,  could  it  bring  him  back  again,  I  think  I  would  give 
him  hand  and  heart  too  ungrudgingly. 

I  do  not  expect  an  answer,  nor  does  any  come.  Despite 
our  anxiety,  we  hear  nothing  from  Alford  until,  one  day  a 
month  later.  Colonel  Fane  comes  over.  Claire  has  been  with 
Lady  Montagu  ever  since.  Her  grief  for  her  son  was  terrible 
to  witness,  she  wrote.  As  for  Sir  Charles  (Sir  Charles !  I 
cannot  recognize  him  by  that  name),  he  is  most  dreadfully 
cut  up :  she  would  never  have  given  him  credit  for  such  deep 
feeling.  He  started  at  once  for  Naples,  to  bring  his  brother's 
body  home,  but  the  blue  sea  had  never  "  given  up  her  dead." 
When  he  returned,  he  was  in  wretched  spirits.  The  only 
thing  he  took  the  least  interest  in  was  looking  over  Hector's 
plans  of  improvement  for  the  j^oor,  and  giving  orders  for  their 
being  carried  into  execution.  It  was  the  saddest  house  she 
had  ever  been  in.  All  this  Colonel  Fane  told  us.  Poor 
Claire !  I  thought  of  her  pain  too, — her  grief  for  the  man 
she  had  loved  all  her  life  through, — grief  the  harder  to  bear 
since  it  could  not  be  openly  avowed  save  as  a  sorrow  for  a 
friend.  There  was  one  question  I  longed  to  put,  yet  dared 
not.     Was  he  engaged  to  the  heiress  ? 

Ever  since  September  have  I  been  haunted  by  the  fear  of 
hearing  the  news  which,  far  apart  as  we  already  are,  would 
make  the  gulf  quite  impassable.  And  so  the  days  crawl  on, 
and  I  try  with  all  my  might  to  shut  the  thought  of  him  out 
of  my  heart, — the  thought  that  he  is  within  a  few  miles  of 
me, — that  he  might  so  easily,  just  for  old  friendship's  sake, 
ride  over  and  see  me.  Colonel  Fane  comes  again :  this  time 
he  tells  us  that  Lady  Montagu  and  Sir  Charles  are  both 
going  away   from   the   Court  for  some   mouths.     My  heart 


DIANA'S  STORY.  403 

sinks  witliiu  me.  Wliy  should  it,  since  I  knew  he  could 
never  be  anything  to  me  ? 

May  has  come  round  again, — May,  with  her  lavish  fullness 
of  life,  so  great  a  part  of  which  must  never  come  to  fruition, 
but  die  before  the  summer  sun  shines  upon  it.  0  Nature ! 
why  this  waste  of  life  and  death  ?  why  this  heedless  neglect 
of  the  children  thou  bringest  forth  ? 

I  am  on  my  way  to  the  village,  to  sit  an  hour  with  a  girl 
who  is  dying  of  decline.  Papa  has  gone  to  spend  the  day 
with  the  Fanes :  the  blacksmith  has  lamed  my  horse  in  shoe- 
ing, or  I  was  to  have  gone  too.  I  am  walking  along  the  lane 
which  skirts  our  park,  under  the  shade  of  the  trees,  in  which 
is  every  bright  and  tender  shade  of  spring  green.  In  the  dis- 
tance a  horseman  is  coming  towards  me.  As  I  first  catch 
sight  of  him,  I  think  it  is  papa  returning,  but  as  he  comes 
nearer,  my  heart  gives  a  gi'eat  throb,  half  of  pleasure,  half 
pain :  right  well  I  know  now  to  whom  that  gracious  form  belongs. 

Captain — Colonel — nay.  Sir  Charles  Montagu  draws  rein  as 
he  comes  up  to  me.  He  is  handsomer  than  ever,  though  he 
looks  so  pale  and  careworn  ;  but  perhaps  he  only  seems  so  to 
me  because  my  eyes  have  ached  so  long  for  the  sight  of  him. 
Dismounting,  he  extends  his  hand,  into  which  I  put  my  tremu- 
lous one.  I  dare  hardly  look  at  him,  lest  my  tell-tale  eyes 
should  betray  to  him  how  unutterably  glad  I  am  to  see  him 
again.  Even  he,  so  self-possessed  from  long  habit  and  contact 
with  the  world,  seems  a  shade  embarrassed  when  our  first  com- 
monplace greeting  is  over. 

"  How  is  Lady  Montagu  ?"  I  ask,  hurriedly. 

"Poor  mother!"  he  answers;  "she  is  quite  broken  down. 
I  am  going  to  get  her  away  from  Alfurd  as  soon  as  I  can.  She 
will  never  be  any  better  so  long  as  she  is  there.  And  I"  (with 
energy), — "  I  perfectly  loathe  the  place.  I  was  on  my  way 
to  Carew  Court,"  he  adds,  after  a  pause ;  "  may  I  go  on  with 
you,  or  will  it  be  taking  you  out  of  the  way  ?" 


404  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

He  leads  his  horse,  and  we  walk  along  together  under  the 
green  branches.  Their  leaves  are  small  and  young  yet,  and 
the  gold  sunshine  floods  them  through  and  under  and  over. 
It  is  a  rare  May  morning,  such  a  one  as  he  and  I  pleased  our- 
selves by  calling  golden  once, — a  long  time  ago.  Does  he  re- 
member it?  He  gives  no  sign.  Why  does  the  first  line  of 
the  second  verse  haunt  me  all  the  way  as  we  walk  side  by  side 
to  the  house, — 

"Ah,  but  the  years  brought  changes  after"? 

Has  not  this  year  been  fruitful  of  changes  ?  Has  there 
not  been  "  care  on  the  lips  that  curved  with  laughter,"  and 
tears — ay,  bitter  ones — in  the  eyes,  whether  "radiant"  or  no? 
We  do  not  say  very  much  on  the  way  home,  nor  until  the 
groom  has  taken  his  horse  and  we  are  in  the  house.  How 
many  a  time  have  I  pictured  him  here, — pictured  myself  in- 
ordinately happy  at  his  presence !  and  yet  to-day  I  feel  con- 
strained, weighed  upon ;  he  does  too,  I  think.  The  May  sun 
shines  full  into  the  room,  exposing  mercilessly  the  threadbare 
state  of  the  carpet,  the  faded  hues  of  the  curtains.  As  my 
thoughts  travel  back  to  the  costly  perfection  of  his  rooms,  I 
feel  for  a  moment  ashamed  of  the  evidences  of  our  poverty. 
Why  should  I  ?  He  knows — has  always  known — we  are 
poor. 

He  comes  and  sits  down  by  me  on  the  sofa. 

"  I  have  been  coming  here  ever  so  many  times,"  he  utterf), 
in  a  low  voice,  turning  his  eyes  full  on  my  face,  "  only  I  could 
not  pluck  up  heart.  It  seems  horrible  to  think  of  being  happy 
when  Hector,  poor  fellow " 

He  breaks  ofi"  without  finishing  the  sentence. 

What  does  he  mean  ?  My  heart  flutters  and  trembles  within 
me,  the  color  shifts  uneasily  in  my  face,  my  eyes  are  drooped 
away  from  him.     Oh,  kind  heaven  !  let  me  not  mistake  him  I 


DIANA'S  STORY.  405 

— let  me  not  imagine  more  meaning  underlying  his  words  than 
he  would  have  me  !     I  feel  him  take  my  hand,  his  other  arm 
"  is  thrown  round  me,  his  lips  are  on  mine,  and  my  eyes  close 
for  one  intense  moment. 

"  To  feel  the  arms  of  my  true  love 
Round  me  once  again." 

Ah !  is  not  all  my  sorrow,  all  my  pain,  wiped  out,  paid,  more 
than  paid,  in  that  one  short  supreme  moment  of  time  ? 

"  Darling,"  he  whispers,  "  do  you  think  all  this  time  that 
I  must  have  seemed  such  a  despicable  brute  in  your  eyes,  I 
haven't  loved  and  longed  for  you  ?" 

I  have  no  answer  for  him  but  tears, — tears,  foolish  tears, — 
the  symbol  of  sorrow,  but  of  great  joy  too.  And  mine  are 
all  for  joy.  Where  is  my  pride?  what  has  become  of  my 
rage  against  his  cruelties,  my  indignation,  my  bitter  resentment 
of  his  treatment  ?  Here  he  but  opens  his  arms  to  me,  and  I 
fly  to  them,  with  no  womanly  subterfuge,  no  temporizing,  but 
only  a  great  unfeigned  joy  that  he  comes  to  me  at  last.  But 
these  thoughts  do  not  trouble  me  at  the  moment, — only  after- 
wards, too  late,  when  he  is  gone. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  says,  still  holding  my  hand,  "  what 
Hector's  last  wish,  his  last  injunction  to  mc,  was?  He  had 
a  presentiment  that  he  should  not  come  back.  I  laughed  at 
it  then,  little  thinking,  poor  fellow,  how  soon  it  was  to  come 
true ;  and  his  last  charge  was  that  I  should  ask  you  to  be  my 
wife,  and  that  I  would  look  after  the  people  at  Alford  and 
carry  out  his  plans.  And  I  will,  so  help  me  God  !"  he  adds, 
earnestly,  whilst  a  dimness  comes  over  his  deep-blue  eyes. 
"And  you  will  help  .me,  darling,  won't  you? — he  said  you 
knew  his  wishes  better  than  any  one  else." 

A  chill  creeps  over  me.  I  scarcely  know  why,  a  dark  cold 
suspicion  that  he  is  fulfilling  a  duty  to  his  d(;ad  brother  shadows 
painfully   n  my  heart,  else  why  has  he  not  come  before? 


406  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"And  Lady  Montagu?"  I  ask,  doubtfully. 

"  My  mother  does  not  know,"  he  answers.  "  I  have  not 
dared  to  tell  her  yet.  Fond  as  she  has  always  been  of  you, 
she  thinks " 

"  Yes,"  I  say,  quickly,  "  thinks " 

"  That  you  were  the  cause  of  Hector  going  abroad.  My 
poor  darling"  (taking  my  hand  and  kissing  it  tenderly),  "  it 
is  no  fault  of  yours  that  you  should  inspire  such  passionate 
love,  and  I  don't  think  any  of  us  ever  gave  poor  Hector  credit 
for  the  deep  feeling  we  now  know  he  had." 

As  he  speaks,  the  memory  of  Hector's  wan  eager  face 
comes  to  me,  and  contrasts  itself  with  the  fair,  handsome,  un- 
impassioned  one  before  me.  But  Hector  was  pleading  with 
the  power  of  despair,  and  this  one, — this  one  has  but  to  ask 
and  luive,  nay,  to  have  love  showered  upon  him. 

"  I  have  made  a  resolve,"  continues  Sir  Charles — no,  I  can- 
not call  him  that — Charlie.  "  I've  been  an  irresolute,  self- 
indulgent  fellow  all  my  life,  and  now  I  want — oh,  little  one" 
(earnestly),  "  you  can't  think  how  I  want  to  be  better  for  his 
sake  and  yours,  for  I  know  how  likely  I  am  to  slip  back  into 
my  old  ways  again.  I'm  not  gifted  with  what  they  call  moral 
courage.  I've  always  found  it  so  easy  just  to  do  what  was 
pleasant  to  me,  and  not  bother  my  head  about  whether  it  was 
right  or  wrong.  I  never  had  any  responsibilities,  you  know, — 
never  expected  to  have  any.  But,  looking  over  poor  Hector's 
papers,  I  came  across  a  letter  from  him  to  me  to  be  opened 
after  his  death,  and  in  it  he  said  he  knew  I  should  be  awfully 
cut  up  for  a  bit  after  his  death,  but  that  the  impression  would 
soon  die  out,  and  that  I  should  probably  only  think  of  making 
the  place  gay  and  pleasant  and  spending  all  the  money  on 
myself,  and  forget  the  poor,  and  perhaps  let  a  bailiff  grind 
them  down ;  and  he  begged  and  entreated  me  to  look  into 
matters  myself,  and  try  to  do  some  good,  as  he  meant  to  do 
if  he  had  lived.     It  was  all  quite  true,  and  I  felt  it,"  Charlie 


DIANA'S  STORY.  407 

goes  on,  with  a  shaky  voice.  "  I  have  no  fliith  in  myself,  but 
I  do  want  to  do  what's  right,  and  I  want  some  good  little  soul 
like  you  to  show  mo  the  way.  And  you  will,  wou't  you, 
dearest?  But  now,"  he  hurries  on,  "  I  am  going  away,  going 
just  because  I  want  to  try  and  exercise  self-control,  because 
there  is  nothing  in  this  world  I  should  like  so  much  as  stopping 
here  and  making  love  to  you,  only  I  feel  that  to  be  happy 
and  forget  him,  poor  fellow,  all  the  time  that  I  am  reaping  the 
benefits  of  his  death,  seems  inhuman.  And  now,  when  you 
have  promised  to  be  mine,  and  I  have  your  promise  to  live  on 
for  the  nest  few  dreary  months,  I  am  going  away  from  Alford, 
going  to  travel  with  my  mother,  going  to  do  anything  that  will 
make  the  time  pass  quickest  until  I  can  come  back  to  you." 

He  takes  both  my  hands,  and  looks  into  my  eyes  the  look 
that  has  looked  my  heart  away  long  ago,  and  whispers, — 

"  Tell  me,  darling,  may  I  hope  ?" 

Across  me  there  comes  a  bitter  regret  that  I  am  so  poor  a 
creature  I  cannot  control  my  evident  joy  and  gladness  to  be 
his.  His  question,  "  May  I  hope?"  is  a  farce  ;  and  by  the 
involuntary  consciousness  in  his  eyes  I  see  he  knows  it.  Yet. 
to  save,  it  may  be,  some  poor  semblance  of  dignity,  I  say, 
averting  my  face  from  him, — 

"  Are  you  asking  me  for  my  own  sake,  or  is  it  only  because 
your  brother  wished  it?" 

My  hands  are  still  in  the  clasp  of  his.  He  presses  them 
tighter,  and  whispers, — 

"  Look  into  my  eyes,  and  ask  me  that  again." 

I  look  into  the  blue  depths,  as  I  am  told,  with  an  eager, 
searching  gaze,  and  fancy  I  read  in  them  the  answer  my  soul 
would  fain  have. 

"  Are  you  satisfied,  little  unbelieving  one?"  he  asks.  And 
with  that  he  kisses  me  once  again  lingeringly,  and  rises  to  go. 

"Are  you  going?"  I  a.-^k,  with  a  feeling  of  unspeakable 
disappointment, — "  going  alieady  ?" 


408  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"  Yes,"  be  answers,  sighing.  "  Don't  you  remember  wbat 
I  told  you  ? — I  baven't  tbe  beart  to  let  myself  be  bappy  yet, 
witb  tbe  tbougbt  of  tbat  poor  fellow  gone  to  bis  miserable 
dcatb.  Good-by,  little  darling.  I  know  you'll  be  faithful  to 
me  until  I  come  back  ;  but  kiss  me  once  more  and  tell  me 
so." 

My  eyes  fill  with  tears.  To  have  found  him  only  to  lose 
him  again, — it  seems  almost  too  cruel  a  pain  to  bear. 

"  You  will  write  to  me,"  I  plead,  "  once  now  and  then, 
that  I  may  be  sure  what  has  happened  to-day  is  not  all  a 
dream  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  will  write.  Why,  child,  I  believe  you  are 
only  half  convinced  yet  how  I  love  you." 

"  And,"  I  say,  hesitating,  hardly  liking  to  say  it,  feeling  as 
if  it  looked  like  an  attempt  on  my  part  to  prevent  his  escaping 
from  his  word,  "  may  I — may  I  tell  papa,  or"  (hastily) 
"  would  you  rather  I  did  not  ?" 

He  pauses  for  a  moment  before  answering. 

"  You  do  not  wish  it  ?"  I  say,  only  anxious  to  do  that 
which  shall  be  pleasing  to  him. 

"  You  shall  do  what  you  think  best,  darling,"  he  answers. 
"  I  could  not  speak  to  him  myself  so  soon  after  poor  Hector's 
death  ;  and  I  would  not  for  the  world  my  mother  should  hear 
of  it  yet,  nor  from  any  lips  but  mine.  Trust  me  until  I  come 
back."  And  the  blue  eyes  look  lovingly  at  me,  so  tbat  I  for- 
get everything  but  that  his  will  is  my  law.  "  Do  you  think,^" 
be  adds,  "  it  won't  be  hard  enough  for  me  to  go  away  from 
my  happiness  just  when  I  have  found  it?" 


DIANA'S  STORY.  409 


CHAPTER    XLII. 


DIANA  S  STORY. 


He  is  gone, — gone  !  and  I  am  sitting  at  the  window,  in 
the  full  hot  sunshine,  trying  to  think.  Is  it  real  ?  I  pinch 
myself,  as  I  have  read  in  books  of  people  doing  to  make  sure 
they  are  awake.  That  is  hardly  a  good  test,  though,  for  in 
some  happy  dreams  I  have  similarly  assured  myself  of  the 
reality  of  my  own  wakefulness.  "Well,  there  is  no  mistake 
this  time.  I,  Diana  Carew,  am  in  full  wide-awake  possession 
of  all  the  senses  that  have  been  bestowed  upon  me.  I  feel 
the  warm  sunshine  on  my  face  and  throat,  I  hear  the  sweet 
jubilance  of  the  birds  and  the  sonorous  hum  of  the  big  hand- 
some bees,  I  see  the  chestnut-tree  that  looks  like  a  gigantic 
chandelier  with  its  thousands  of  wax  candles,  and  the  green 
fields  yonder  all  golden  with  buttercups,  and  I  smell  the 
heavy-scented  azaleas,  the  lilacs,  and  the  wallflowers.  And, 
since  I  last  looked  out,  that  has  come  to  pass  which,  in  my 
wildest  dreams  of  possible  bliss,  has  never  taken  the  shape  in 
which  it  comes  real  to  me  to-day.  The  man  whom  I  have 
loved  with  all  my  love,  loved  unswervingly  in  good  report  and 
evil  report,  has  come  to  me,  come,  not  poor,  with  the  thought 
of  sacrificing  himself  in  coming,  but  gifted  with  many  gifts. 
He  has  asked  me  to  be  his  wife,  a  fate  than  which  none  in 
this  world  can  seem  to  me  more  altogether  blissful  or  to  be 
desired.  And  yet  I  am  not  happy.  Truly  there  is  but  one 
step  from  the  sublime  to  the  ridiculous.  As  my  mind  shapes 
the  sentence  that  the  great  hunioiist  has  made  immortally 
ridiculous,  I  cannot  help  thinking  how  Curly,  a  couple  of 
years  ago,  used  to  weary  our  ears  with  its  constant  iteration, 
8  33 


410  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

notably,  "  And  though  the  Christy  Minstrels  never  perform 
out  of  London,  yet  I  am  not  happy."  I  smile  in  memory 
of  my  boy,  and  then  my  thoughts  return  to  graver  considera- 
tions. 

I  have  let  him  go  without  satisfying  myself  on  a  hundred 
points.  Whilst  he  was  with  me,  the  joyful  fact  of  his  presence 
made  me  oblivious  of  all  else  ;  but  now  that  he  is  gone,  and  I 
can  think  seriously,  cruel  doubts  rise  up  and  array  themselves 
against  me.  With  their  winged  shafts  they  pierce  every  joint 
in  the  armor  of  my  loving  confidence.  How  is  it  possible 
that  he  can  have  come  to  care  for  me  so  suddenly,  when  last 
autumn  he  could  treat  me  with  systematic  indifference,  even 
making  love  to  another  woman  before  my  eyes, — when  in  the 
preceding  summer  he  could  coldly  avoid  me  and  take  an  in- 
terest in  another  man's  love  for  me  ?  Why,  too,  had  he  de- 
layed so  long  to  come  to  me,  when  he  was  so  near  me  ?  How 
could  he  go  away  from  me  now  and  wish  his  proposal  to  be 
kept  secret  ?  The  more  I  think  over  it,  the  stronger  grows 
the  ugly  doubt  in  my  heart  of  his  love  for  me.  He  has  come 
to-day  under  the  influence  of  his  regret  for  his  brother,  to 
fulfill  his  last  wish.  At  last  I  see  how  Hector  loved  me.  and 
a  bitter  yearning  regret  for  him  fills  my  heart.  As  a  mountain 
to  a  mole-hill,  his  love  stands  in  comparison  with  Charlie's. 
What  greater  proof  of  love  could  I  have  had  than  his  con- 
quering the  feeling  that  was  the  bitterest  of  his  life, — the 
thought  of  my  being  his  brother's  wife  !  At  last,  too  late. 
I  see  the  full  nobility  and  generosity  of  his  character  :  what 
can  I  do  now  but  weep  blinding  tears  of  unavailing  I'egret? 
And  yet,  could  I  summon  him  back  in  the  flesh,  I  know 
I  could  never  have  loved  him  with  the  love  he  craved:  to 
marry  him  would  have  been  not  one  whit  less  a  sacrifice,  from 
which  I  should  have  shrunk  as  much  now  as  then. 

But  to  have  gained  happiness,  such  liappiness  as  I  had 
never  dreamed  of,  and  fur  the  taste  of  it  to  be  like  ashes  in 


DIANA'S  STORY.  411 

my  mouth  !  After  long  and  painful  tliought,  I  decide  upon 
keeping  the  event  of  to-day  a  secret  even  from  papa ;  a  pain- 
ful prescience  comes  to  me  that  this  happiness  will  never  be 
fulfilled.  So  I  content  myself  vrith  telling  him  that  Sir  Charles 
Montagu  has  been  over  to  call,  and,  after  a  few  indifferent 
questions  about  him,  papa  drops  the  subject.  There  is  one 
great  hope  to  which  I  cling ;  he  will  write  to  me,  and  in  his 
letters  perhaps  he  will  say  something  to  satisfy  my  hungry 
heart. 

A  few  days  after  our  interview,  his  first  letter  comes.  It 
is  only  a  short  one,  principally  about  his  mother,  and  their 
plans  for  the  summer.     It  ends  thus : 

"  Dearest,  if  you  think  this  letter  cold  and  indifferent,  I 
have  tried  to  make  it  so.  I  feel  as  if  we  both  owe  it  to  Hec- 
tor not  to  let  ourselves  be  happy  and  forget  him  yet." 

As  I  read,  my  miserable  unbelief  in  him  grows  stronger. 
He  does  not  love  m,e.  His  is  not  a  nature  to  be  acted  upon 
by  any  such  scruples  as  he  pretends  ;  the  first  element  of  his 
sensuous,  indolent  nature  is  to  indulge  himself  in  everything 
that  pleases  him :  if  (and  I  go  back  to  the  sentence  of  his 
which  has  always  galled  me  so  bitterly) — if  he  could  never  be 
ten  minutes  alone  with  a  woman  without  wanting  to  make  love 
to  her,  could  he  be  cool  and  indifferent  towards  the  woman  he 
really  loved  and  meant  to  make  his  wife  ?  My  heart  indig- 
nantly rejects  the  idea. 

"  No,  no,  no  1  he  does  not  love  me  !"  I  say  to  myself,  bit- 
terly, "  any  more  than  he  did  last  summer,  last  autumn."  I 
do  not  answer  his  letter  ;  I  cannot ;  what  should  I  say  ? — but 
I  dig  a  grave  for  my  new-born  hopes,  and  give  them  decent 
burial,  and  try  to  smile,  as  if  all  the  joy  and  hope  of  my  life 
were  not  buried  with  them.  Yet  somewhere,  as  in  Pandora's 
box,  lying  under  all  the  doubts  and  fears  and  miseries,  there 
is  a  little  winged  Hope  lying,  that  his  presence  may  kindle 
into  life  some  day,  if  Fate  be  not  too  cruel.     I  du  not  eveu 


412  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

conjecture  liow  strong  it  is  until,  one  morning  a  fortnight 
later,  a  letter  comes  to  me  that  slays  it  outright.  The  envelope 
is  directed  in  a  strange  hand :  inside  there  are  a  few  words  in 
the  same  writing,  and  inclosed  is  a  letter  from  him.  1  read 
first  the  words  in  the  unknown  hand  ;  "  The  sender  thinks  it 
only  fair  to  Miss  Carew  that  she  should  be  made  acquainted 
with  the  real  state  of  Sir  Charles  Montagu's  feelings." 

Then,  trembling  and  heart-sick,  I  go  to  my  own  room,  and, 
locking  myself  in,  read  his  letter  twice  over.     This  is  it : 

"  My  Darling, — 

"  After  what  has  happened  lately,  how  can  I  ever  hope  to 
make  you  think  kindly  of  me  again  ?  To  profess  my  love 
for  you,  and  then  to  tell  you  I  am  going  to  marry  another 
■woman  !  But  I  promised  my  brother, — I  gave  him  my  sacred 
word ;  and  how  dare  I  go  back  from  a  promise  made  more 
sacred  still  by  death  ?  My  own  darling,  I  know  you  do 
love  me,  unworthy  though  I  am  of  your  sweet  love.  The 
thought  that  I  shall  never  be  anything  more  to  you  half 
breaks  my  heart.  I  love  you.  I  do  not  love  her, — need  I 
tell  7/ou  that  ?  If  I  had  never  given  that  hateful  promise  to 
Hector,  we  might  have  been  so  awfully  happy  now  !  Only, 
if  I  marry  her, — and  I  hardly  see  how  I  can  get  out  of  it, — 
never  think  that  I  did  not  love  you  with  all  my  heart  and 
soul,  and  would  have  asked  no  greater  happiness  than  to  have 
you  for  my  wife,  if  Fate  had  not  been  against  us.  She  com- 
plains of  my  being  unloverlike ;  if  she  could  only  know  how 
utterly  unloverlike  I  feel  towards  her  !  So,  my  darling, — for 
the  last  time  I  dare  call  you  so, — good-by,  and  may  your  lot 
be  a  happier  one  than  that  to  which  I  am  miserably  looking 
forward !  C.  M." 

When  I  have  read  the  letter  twice  through,  I  lay  it  down 
and  lean  my  head  upon  my  hands.     I  feel  stunned,  as  though 


DIANA'S  STORY.  413 

some  one  had  struck  me  a  heavy  blow.  One  thought  iterates 
itself  again  and  again :  Hector  is  revenged, — Hector  is  re- 
venged !  Ay,  had  I  treated  him  with  the  wantonest,  most 
heartless  cruelty,  had  I  laid  myself  out  to  win  his  love  and 
then  spurned  it,  he  would  yet  be  amply,  fully  revenged.  How 
can  we  gauge  our  sorrows  ?  I  thought  the  hours  when  T 
believed  my  boy  dying,  the  bitterest  ever  given  mortal  soul  to 
know ;  but  the  anguish  I  feci  now  seems  not  less  keen.  To 
be  spoken  of  by  him  with  shuddering  dislike, — to  have  in- 
spired in  him  nor  love  nor  liking, — to  have  been  asked  tar- 
dily, reluctantly  to  be  his  wife  because  he  had  given  his  word 
to  his  brother !  Oh,  it  was  an  easy  task  to  give  him  up  for 
his  own  sake,  that  I  might  not  mar  his  fortunes,  when  I 
thought  he  had  some  little  love  for  me ;  but  now,  to  give  him 
up  to  another  woman, — a  woman  he  loves  passionately, — loves 
as  ardently  as  he  is  indiiferent  to  me  ! 

"  What  have  I  done  to  deserve  this  misery  ?"  I  cry,  beat- 
ing my  hands  together  in  an  agony  of  pain  and  shame.  "  Oh, 
what  have  I  done  ? — what  have  I  done  ?" 

I  push  my  hair  off  my  brow,  and  rub  my  hands  hard  against 
it,  to  try  and  still  its  throbbing.  Is  it  like  this,  I  wonder, 
that  people  begin  to  go  mad  ?  If  I  could  only  get  away  some- 
where !  I  cannot  stay  in  this  place, — cannot  go  on  leading 
this  monotonous  life.  I  will  go  to  papa  and  beg  him  to  take 
me  away  at  once, — I  care  not  where,  if  only  it  be  a  long,  long 
way  oiF.  I  am  in  a  fever  of  impatience.  I  do  not  even  step 
to  look  at  myself  in  the  glass  nor  to  smooth  my  disheveled 
hair.  I  thrust  the  letter  into  my  pocket  and  run  swiftly  down- 
stairs to  his  study.  He  looks  up  from  his  writing  eis  I  enter, 
then,  dropping  his  pen,  cries, — 

"  Di,  my  child,  what  ails  you  ?" 

With  an  unconscious  instinct  I  run  to  him,  fling  myself 
down  before  him,  and  bury  my  head  in  his  knees.  His  kind 
arms  are  round  me,  and  he  murmurs,  brokenly, — 

35* 


414  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"  Poor  little  girl ! — poor  child  1" 

At  his  tender  voice,  at  the  sound  of  its  great  pity,  I  break 
into  tears  and  sobs  and  bitter  crying.  In  all  my  life  I  have 
never  cried  like  this  before. 

And  papa  strokes  my  head,  and  presses  my  hands  in  his, 
and  says,  "  For  God's  sake,  child,  do  not  cry  like  this  !  My 
poor  little  girl,  what  is  it  ?    What  can  I  say  to  comfort  you  ?" 

I  had  not  dreamed  of  this  outburst.  I  meant  to  have  come 
quietly  and  said  to  him,  "  Papa,  I  am  not  happy.  I  want  you 
to  take  me  away  somewhere.  Please  do  not  ask  me  any  ques- 
tions ;"  but,  somehow,  at  sight  of  him,  at  the  sound  of  his 
■kind  voice,  I  break  down. 

What  shall  I  tell  him  ?  What  account  shall  I  give  of  my 
bitter  pain  and  grief? 

He  waits  patiently  as  any  woman  until  my  sobs  die  away  ; 
then  he  says, — 

"  Tell  me  about  it,  dear.     What  makes  you  unhappy  ?" 

But  I  am  silent.     How  can  I  tell  him  ? 

He  waits  yet  a  little,  and  then,  stroking  my  head  fondly, 
says,— 

"  Am  I  not  your  father  ?  Who  can  feel  for  your  pain  as  I 
do  ?  If  your  mother  were  living,  you  would  take  your  trouble 
to  her;  but,  since  she  is  dead"  (sighing),  "let  me  be  father 
and  mother  both  to  you." 

I  would  fain  tell  him,  but  the  words  will  not  come.  How 
can  one  tell  one's  father  of  one's  foolish,  unreturned  love  ? 

"  Do  you  think  I  never  noticed,"  he  goes  on,  "  how  changed 
you  were  after  you  first  went  to  Warrington  ?  Do  you  think 
a  father  can  be  so  dull  and  blind  as  not  to  notice  when  his 
children  suffer  ?  Do  you  think,  my  poor  little  girl,  I  never 
guessed  the  cause  of  your  unhappiness  because  it  was  out  of 
my  power  to  help  you  ?" 

At  last  my  lips  unclose. 

"I  will  tell  you,"   I  cry,  hurriedly;  and,  nerving  myself 


DIANA'S  STORV.  415 

with  a  great  effort,  my  face  turned  away  from  him, — turned 
to  the  light  where  the  cruel  sun  streams  in  unmindful  of  my 
heart's  pain, — stammer  out  incoherently,  sobbingly,  painfully, 
my  "  plain,  unvarnished  tale." 

"  You  know  when  I  first  went  to  Warrington,  when  I  first 
met  poor  Sir  Hector,  his  brother,  Captain  Montagu,  was  there. 
He  could  not  help  it"  (with  a  sigh  that  nearly  rives  my  chest 
asunder)  :  "  he  was  always  used  to  see  beautiful,  fashionable 
women.  What  should  he  ihink  about  a  little  stupid  country- 
girl?     But  I — I  shall  never  care  for  any  one  again." 

"So,"  says  papa,  in  a  low  voice,  "that  was  why  you  re- 
fused Sir  Hector  and  Lord  Seldon." 

"  Then,"  I  pi-oceed,  becoming  more  and  more  embarrassed 
with  my  recital,  and  looking  away  for  help  out  througlrthe 
sunshine  and  the  deep-colored  roses  to  the  far  blue  heaven, 
"  then  when  I  was  at  Alford  he  came  home  unexpectedly, 
and  we  were  together  a  good  deal.  I  don't  know  why"  (my 
voice  faltering),  "  perhaps — perhaps  he  could  not  help  seeing 
I — I  cared  for  him,  but  he  asked  me  very  generously  to  marry 
him." 

"  Well?"  papa's  voice  is  low  and  impatient. 

"  Well,"  I  echo,  reproachfully,  "  as  if  I  would  have  let  him 
burden  himself  with  me  who  had  nothing,  when  he  had  been 
used  to  every  luxury  all  his  life.  No"  (with  a  touch  of  pride) : 
"  he  was  willing  to  take  me,  but  I  would  not  have  him." 

Papa  makes  an  impatient  movement.  I  hurry  on.  "  When 
I  met  him  in  town,  he  avoided  me.  I  don't  suppose"  (sigh- 
ing) "  he  ever  had  thought  much  about  me,  and  then,  you 
know,  at  the  Desboroughs'  everyone  thought  he  was  going 
to  marry  the  heiress.  From  that  time  until  the  other  day 
when  he  came  here  I  have  never  seen  him." 

"  And  is  it  possible,"  papa  asks,  wonderingly,  "  that  you 
have  gone  on  caring  for  him  all  this  time,  when  he  has  never 
even  kept  up  a  pretense  of  Lbiiikiiig  of  you  ?" 


416  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

His  words  stab  me  to  the  heart.  I  put  my  hands  before 
my  face  to  hide  the  fire  of  shame  that  burns  my  cheeks. 

"He  came  the  other  day,"  I  falter,  "  to  ask  me  to  marry 
him !" 

"  What !"  cries  papa,  in  a  voice  of  utter  astonishment. 

"  He  came,"  I  go  on,  coldly,  not  sparing  myself,  "  because 
Hector's  last  wish  was  that  he  should  marry  me." 

"  Oh,  Di,  Di !"  exclaims  papa,  in  a  low,  unsteady  voice  ; 
"  where  are  your  women's  eyes  and  hearts,  that  you  cannot 
appreciate  such  a  noble  fellow  as  that,  but  fritter  away  your 
love  on  one  who  is  not  worthy  to  be  mentioned  in  the  same 
year  with  him  ?  Well"  (impatiently),  "  and  what  did  you 
say  to  him  ?     Did  you  refuse  him  again  for  his  own  sake  ?" 

"  No,"  I  mutter  ;  "  no." 

"  Well,  then,  in  heaven's  name,  why  did  he  not  come  to 
me,  like  an  honorable  man,  and  why  are  you  in  such  grief 
to-day?" 

"  He  did  not  speak  to  you,"  I  return,  hastening  to  defend 
the  man  I  love,  "  because — because,  poor  Hector  having  been 
dead  so  short  a  time,  he  did  not  wish  anything  known  yet. 
He  thought  it  would  look  unfeeling." 

"  Oh  1"  utters  papa,  doubtfully.  "  But,  Di,  we  have  not 
come  to  the  cause  of  your  trouble  yet." 

"  It  is  this,"  I  cry,  taking  the  letter- and  inclosed  lines  from 
my  pocket  and  thrusting  them  into  his  hand. 

He  takes  it,  and  while  he  reads  I  look  up  for  the  first  time 
and  scan  his  face.  He  makes  no  sign,  utters  no  word  ;  and 
yet  his  face  is  eloquent  enough  to  me.  I  have  seen  enough. 
I  hide  my  eyes  with  my  hands. 

"  Poor  little  girl  1"  I  hear  him  murmur,  presently,  in  a 
broken  voice. 


DIANA'S  STORY.  417 


CHAPTER    XLIIL 

Diana's  story. 

Papa  does  not  for  an  instant  hesitate  to  yield  to  my  wish 
to  go  away.  I  think,  indeed,  he  would  have  proposed  it  if  I 
had  not  done  so.  And  now  the  money  difficulty  does  not 
stand  between  us  and  the  fulfillment  of  our  wish,  as  it  would 
have  done  this  time  last  year.  The  Fanes  are  going  to  Swit- 
zerland, and  have  already  urged  us  to  join  them.  Now  papa 
writes  to  ask  Colonel  Fane  if  it  would  be  agreeable  to  them 
to  have  our  companionship,  and  receives  a  quick  response  in 
the  affirmative.  Ere  ten  days  have  passed,  I  have  turned  my 
back  upon  my  own  country,  indiffi3rent  in  my  misery,  save  for 
Curly's  sake,  whether  I  ever  behold  it  again.  On  the  day  I 
leave  England  I  inclose  the  letter,  with  its  anonymous  com- 
panion, to  Sir  Charles.  At  first  I  thought  of  sending  them 
without  any  addition  from  me,  and  letting  them  tell  their 
own  tale ;  but  on  this  point  I  change  my  mind.  I  would  not 
have  him  think  I  blame  him  for  being  unable  to  love  me.  So 
I  add  these  lines  : 

"  Dear  Sir  Charles, — 

"  The  letters  I  inclose  will  speak  for  themselves.  Of  course 
I  know  you  never  intended  the  one  in  your  writing  to  fall  into 
my  hands,  and  I  am  quite  sure  you  will  be  very  sorry  it  has 
done  so.  You  acted  very  generously  in  asking  me  to  bo  your 
wife,  you  have  done  your  duty  to  your  brother,  and  can  have 
nothing  to  reproach  yourself  with.  It  is  I  who  positively 
refuse  to  marry  you :  do  not  make  any  attempt  to  shake  my 
resolve, — it  would  be  utterly  useless,  and  only  put  U3  both  to 
s* 


418  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

unnecessary  pain.  When  you  get  this,  I  shall  be  out  of  Eng- 
land. Do  not  try  to  find  out  where  I  am.  I  have  left  most 
urgent  directions  with  the  only  two  people  who  know,  not  to 
tell  you.     I  hope  you  may  be  very  happy. 

"  Yours  sincerely, 

"  Diana  Carew." 

So,  in  this  lame,  cold  effusion,  I  take  my  leave  of  the  man 
who  has  had  all  the  love  of  my  young  heart, — who  has  taken 
it  and  left  me  bankrupt. 

The  Fanes  are  very  kind  :  they  affect  not  to  notice  my  sad 
and  altered  demeanor,  but  ere  long  in  my  desperate  need  of 
sympathy  I  fly  for  comfort  to  Claire's  loving  pity.  For, 
though  she  is  outwardly  as  bright  and  cheerful  as  ever,  I 
know  right  well  that  it  is  from  a  sense  of  duty,  not  from  any 
spontaneous  gayety.  My  tutored  eyes  discern  how  surely  the 
iron  has  entered  her  soul  too.  And,  like  the  angel  that  she 
is,  she  ministers  her  sweet  pity  and  consolation  to  my  sorrow, 
and  I  am  comforted  by  it.  She  says  I  have  done  right. 
What  else  could  I  do  when  the  knowledge  came  to  me  that 
he  was  only  sacrificing  himself  to  a  sense  of  duty  and  had  no 
love  to  give  me  ?  Surely  fate  was  in  a  bitter  mood  when  she 
thrust  upon  me  the  power  of  making  myself  passionately 
beloved  where  I  could  give  no  return,  and  withheld  it  when 
it  would  have  made  fair  all  my  life.  If  I  were  only  good 
like  Claire  !  I  cannot  kiss  the  rod  as  she  would  have  me,  as 
she  does  herself.  I  cannot  thank  God  for  my  ruined  life. 
The  most  I  can  do  is  to  try  hard,  oh,  how  hard !  not  to  rebel 
too  violently. 

"  My  dear,"  she  whispers,  with  her  soft  kind  arms  about 
my  neck,  and  her  tears  falling  in  sympathy  with  mine,  "  you 
will  see  it  yet.  I  know  how  hard,  how  almost  impossible  it 
seems  at  first  to  see  anything  but  cruelty  and  injustice  in  these 
bitter  trials ;  but  if  only  you  do  not  harden  your  heart,  you 


DIANA'S  STORY.  419 

will  see  tlie  love  of  God  in  it  some  day,  and  be  able  to  say, '  It 
is  well'  " 

Until  now  it  has  never  been  difficult  for  me  to  love  God 
and  pray  to  him  ;  reverence  for  all  that  is  good  and  great  is 
a  part  of  my  nature ;  in  a  humble,  childlike  way,  I  have  looked 
up  to  my  Father  in  heaven  and  asked  of  him,  as  I  have  been 
bidden,  those  ^ifts  that  I  have  desired.  I  have  brought  to 
his  footstool  all  my  cares  but  this  one ;  how  dared  I  bring  my 
earthly  love?  I  have  been- taught  that  I  must  love  God  first 
before  all  others ;  and  how  then  could  I  pray  for  his  sanction 
to  my  setting  up  an  idol  before  him  and  worshiping  it  with 
that  rapt  passionate  love  which  our  earth-cloyed  souls  give  so 
easily  and  naturally  to  mortals,  and  whose  intensity  is  in  measure 
and  degree  so  far  beyond  the  devout  and  reverential  but  cold 
love  we  ofi'er  to  the  Deity  ?  My  talks  with  Claire,  however,  do 
me  good :  it  must  indeed  be  a  hard  nature  on  which  her  sweet 
goodness  could  leave  no  impress.  She  is  so  bright,  so  kindly,  so 
humble ;  there  is  none  of  the  austerity  of  conscious  goodness 
about  her ;  she  is  not  afraid  to  laugh  and  be  merry  lest  she 
should  detract  from  her  character  for  saintliness.  I  have  heard 
men  speak  against  women,  accuse  them. of  envy,  malice,  little- 
ness. I  would  like  them  to  know  Claire,  to  see  her  apprecia- 
tion of  goodness,  talent,  or  beauty  in  others,  her  quick,  glad 
recognition  of  excellence  wherever  shown.  Her  aifection  does 
not  hang  upon  the  mediocrity  of  her  friends,  as  I  am  told  (by 
men)  that  most  women's  does. 

There  is  at  all  events  one  person  who  thoroughly  appi'cci- 
ates  her, — her  brother. 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  one  day,  when  we  were  talking  about  her. 
"  if  there  were  more  women  like  Claire  going  about  the  world, 
what  a  much  more  tolerable — indeed,  what  a  much  happier — 
place  it  would  be  !  But,  unfortunately,  most  good  women  are 
dull,  and  many  bright  women  are — well,  not  exactly  what  you 
would  call  good ;  so  that  it  does  not  very  often  fall  to  a  man's 


420  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

lot  to  see  one  like  Claire  who,  is  good,  charitable,  unselfish, 
and  the  merriest,  brightest  companion  all  in  one." 

If  I  were  to  add  what  Colonel  Fane  added  to  this, — not,  I 
must  confess,  with  any  truth  or  justice,  but  that  I  might  not 
feel  myself  left  out  in  the  cold, — I  suppose  I  might  draw  down 
upon  my  foolish  head  the  condemnation  wherewith  I  visited 
the  egotism  of  Miss  Harriet  Byron.  We  are  in  Paris,  en  roiUe 
for  Switzerland.  Colonel  Fane  and  his  sister  find  it  sadly 
altered  since  the  war ;  but  to  me,  who  have  never  seen  the 
Queen  of  Cities  before,  and  to  papa,  who  only  remembers  it 
in  the  first  days  of  the  great  unhappy  Emperor  who  (let  no 
man  forget)  made  her  what  she  is,  it  seems  the  gayest,  the 
most  beautiful  city  the  mind  of  man  could  imagine.  How 
marvelously  buoyant  and  volatile  must  be  the  French  nature, 
to  stand  erect  so  soon  from  the  weight  of  such  crushing  mis- 
fortunes ! 

Our  first  destination  after  Paris  is  Geneva,  which  we  have 
agreed  to  make  our  headquarters.  It  strikes  us  as  being  dull 
after  Paris,  and  the  glare  is  frightful.  The  evenings  on  the 
lake  are  pleasant,  and  I  like  to  stand  on  the  bridge  and  look 
down  at  the  blue  rushing  Rhone,  deep  and  blue  as  Ms  eyes. 
Colonel  Fane  is  kindness  itself:  he  takes  such  care  of  me, 
and  never  seems  to  forget  anything  that  could  add  to  my  com- 
fort. For  the  last  few  days  a  suspicion  has  begun  to  dawn  on 
me  that  papa  is  falling  in  love  with  Claire.  Dearly  as  I  love 
her,  the  very  thought  gives  me  a  twinge  of  jealous  pain  ;  we 
have  always  been  first  with  him.  Curly  and  I,  and,  now  that 
I  have  no  one  left  but  my  father,  it  seems  cruel  to  think  of 
losing  him.  I  try  hard  not  to  be  selfish.  I  remind  myself 
of  the  sad  lonely  life  he  has  led.  I  can  see  plainly  enough 
how  bright  Claire  might  make  his  future ;  and  yet — yet  the 
thought  of  giving  up  the  chatelaineship  of  home,  however 
poor  an  oflace  it  may  seem  in  the  eyes  of  others,  is  grievous 
and  bitter  to   me.     I  begin  to  watch   her  narrowly,  in  the 


DIANA'S  STORY.  421 

endeavor  to  discover  what  her  feelings  for  him  are,  and  I  fancy 
that  sometimes  her  bright  eyes  are  brighter  still,  and  the  deli- 
cate pink  in  her  face  deepens  when  he  appeals  to  her,  as  he 
often  does. 

Some  one  has  strongly  recommended  to  us  the  ascent  of 
Les  Voirons,  some  mountains  near  Geneva,  where  we  are  told 
is  a  charming  hotel,  and  one  of  the  loveliest  views  in  Switzer- 
land. Papa  and  Colonel  Fane  decide  upon  our  spending  a  day 
or  two  up  there,  and  accordingly  we  set  forth  on  our  journey. 
If  the  result  repaid  us,  we  agreed  before  reaching  our  destina- 
tion, we  should  be  fortunate,  for  great  were  the  disagreeables, 
not  to  say  perils,  we  encountered  en  route.  We  drove  from 
Geneva  to  Bergue,  whei'e  we  arrived  in  a  deluge  of  rain,  and 
found  nothing  but  a  wretched  and  most  uninviting  auberge. 
Mine  host  was  about  the  most  ill-looking  and  surly  individual 
conceivable  :  if  we  had  been  in  Italy  instead  of  honest  Switzer- 
land, our  minds  might  have  undergone  some  appi'ehensions  as 
to  our  safety,  more  especially  as  there  was  a  great  open  trap- 
door in  the  room  into  which  we  were  rudely  ushered.  After 
alternate  threats  and  persuasions.  Colonel  Fane  wrung  a  prom- 
ise of  a  steed  apiece  for  Claire  and  myself:  they  themselves 
would  have  to  walk.  Our  surly  host  went  to  fetch  the  horses 
from  the  plow,  and  in  about  an  hour  we  were  mounted  and 
off.  The  sensation  was  like  what  I  should  imagine  riding  on 
a  dromedary  might  be.  There  was  scarcely  any  footing,  at 
times  ;  it  was  about  as  easy  as  riding  up  a  ladder  cut  in  a  rock. 
Suddenly,  as  we  were  nearing  our  journey's  end,  Claire's  horso 
stumbled  and  threw  her.  There  was  no  more  doubt  in  my 
mind  after  that  what  papa  felt  for  her :  the  agonized  expres- 
sion of  his  face,  as  he  bent  over  her,  would  have  told  mc 
plainly  enough  if  I  had  never  guessed  it  before.  Most  fortu- 
nately, she  is  not  hurt,  but  she  refuses  to  mount  again,  and 
performs  the  rest  of  the  journey  leaning  on  papa's  arm ; 
whilst   my   eyes,   half  jealous,   half  kindly,  follow  them.     I 


422  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

fancy  Colonel  Fane  is  sad  ai)d  out  of  sorts  too ;  perhaps  he 
also  suspects  something,  and  is  reluctant  to  lose  Claire.  He 
may  well  be  that. 

At  last  we  reach  the  hotel,  and,  glad  as  we  are  to  get  there, 
with  the  darkness  coming  on,  we  begin  to  think  lugubriously 
that  we  have  been  "  let  in."  It  is  too  dark  to  see  the  view ; 
we  are  the  first  visitors  of  the  season  ;  it  is  damp  and  chilly, 
and  there  are  no  fires  anywhere.  But  two  hours  later,  when 
we  have  dined  by  no  means  badly,  and  are  sitting  round  the 
blazing  wood  fire,  we  are  able  to  take  a  more  cheerful  view  of 
things ;  and  the  next  day,  which  is  gloriously  bright  and 
sunny,  we  are  fain  to  admit,  after  having  explored  the  neigh- 
borhood, that  we  were  not  victims  to  a  heartless  practical  joke, 
as  we  at  first  dismally  conceived  ourselves. 

It  is  afternoon  of  the  second  day  after  our  arrival.  My 
heart  is  sad  and  bitter  within  me,  and  I  creep  away  fi'om  the 
rest  of  the  party  and  wend  my  way  alone  through  the  pines 
to  a  solitary  spot,  where  I  may  nurse  mj  sorrow  all,  all  alone. 
To  say  that  the  day  and  scene  are  glorious,  is  to  give  but  very 
poor  and  faint  expression  to  my  sense  of  their  beauty ;  but 
what  other  words  can  I  find  ?  Down  in  sultry,  glaring  Geneva 
to-day  the  heat  would  be  unbearable  ;  walking  along  the  white, 
hot  streets,  unless  provided  with  a  dense  blue  veil,  the  sun 
would  scorch  up  one's  eyes  and  fice.  But  up  here,  so  much 
nearer  to  him,  one  can  bear  his  fervent  kiss  unsheltered  by 
veil  or  parasol :  his  fierceness  is  tempered  to  delicious  warmth 
by  the  soft  cool  winds  that  come  from  heaven  across  the  brow 
of  the  snow-king.  I  throw  myself  upon  the  short  green  turf, 
all  gay  with  myriad  eyes  of  pink,  blue,  and  yellow,  an  "  enam- 
eled sward"  indeed,  and  let  my  eyes  wander  down  the  valley 
to  the  white  glistening  town,  the  lovely  lake,  blue  as  a  deep- 
colored  forget-me-not,  with  the  serpent  windings  of  the  Rhone 
flowing  into  it.  The  dark  chain  of  the  Jura  stretches  away 
in  front  of  me :  on  all  sides  are  mountains,  some  velvety  gi-een 


DIANA'S  STORY.  423 

and  pine-crowned,  some  bare  and  sterile,  and  away,  far  off,  but 
clear  against  the  blue  sky,  garbed  in  his  unchanging  white 
garment,  stands  Mont  Blanc.  Green  and  fair  is  the  valley 
beneath  ;  sweet  odors  rise  from  the  mountain's  pine-clad  sides, 
and  the  birds  are  singing  up  in  these  heights  joyously  and 
tunefully  as  they  sing  in  our  woods  at  home.  Is  not  nature 
fair  ?  and  yet  its  fairness  cannot  make  my  soul  less  sad, — nay, 
rather  more  so.  There  is  only  one  thing  that  seems  happiness 
to  me  to-day, — oblivion,  nothingness,  to  shut  one's  eyes  once 
forever  on  a  scene  some  such  as  this,  and  never  through  all 
the  countless  ages  to  unclose  them  again.  I  have  lost  the 
power  of  realizing  a  happy  future :  all  life,  all  existence,  it 
seems  to  me,  must  be  marred  with  some  pain.  Then  the 
thought  comes  to  me  with  grim  irony  that  now  my  life  is 
done,  my  father's  is  beginning.  God  knows  I  do  not  begrudge 
him  any  happiness,  only 

My  swift  thoughts  fly  back  to  the  one  love  of  my  life, — 
the  foolish,  unhappy,  but,  oh  1  I  think,  the  faithfulest  love  a 
woman  ever  gave  to  man.  How  can  I  live  through  all  the 
long  dull  years  without  him, — the  great  appalling  number  of 
years  that  I  have  yet  to  crawl  through  before  I  reach  the 
allotted  number  of  threescore  and  ten  ?  And  yet  life  is  called 
brief, — fleeting.  Why,  to  me  a  year  seems  an  eternity.  A 
year  !  "Where  shall  I  be  this  time  next  year  ?  and  he, — where 
will  he  be  ?  Married  to  the  woman  he  loves,  whispers  my 
heart.  Oh,  heaven  !  what  has  she  done  to  desei've  so  glad,  so 
blest  a  fate,  and  what  have  I  done  to  inherit  mine?  The 
thought  is  too  much  for  me.  I  fling  myself  prone  on  the 
short  sweet  turf.  I  tear  with  ruthless  hands  the  jeweled  eyes 
from  their  green  head,  and  cry  and  sob  to  heaven  to  pity  or  to 
slay  me,  since  I  cannot  longer  endure  the  aching  agony  of  life 
without  him. 

My  rage  of  pain  has  spent  itself  at  last :  my  sobs  come 
fitfully.     There  is  a  sound  of  voices  in  the  distance,  and  I 


424  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

rise  and  turn  to  flee.  For  pride's  sake,  I  would  not  be  seen 
with  the  traces  of  my  late  violent  emotion  upon  me.  I  walk 
hurriedly  along  the  mountain's  slope.  Suddenly  a  voice 
utters  my  name, — a  voice  whose  sound  sends  the  blood  rush- 
ing to  my  brain  and  my  heart  leaping  to  my  throat.  I  turn. 
Where  are  my  senses?  am  I  dreaming?  Oh,  kind  heaven, 
if  it  be  so,  let  me  never  wake  again  !  He  is  here,  my  lost 
love  who  has  so  cruelly  torn  my  heart  in  twain.  His  arms  are 
round  me ;  his  gentian-colored  eyes  are  looking  into  mine, — 
mine  that  I  know  are  spoiled  and  marred  with  tears, — and  yet 
I  care  not ;  vanity,  grief,  all  are  forgotten  in  this  supreme 
moment  in  which  I  forecast  Paradise.  Does  what  I  say  sound 
too  strong  ?  Ah  !  but  if  you  ever  loved  with  all  your  heart 
and  soul,  loved  and  lost,^  and  found  your  love  again !  No 
single  question  comes  to  my  lips.  I  care  not  to  know  why  or 
how  he  came.  I  have  forgotten  that  other  woman  whom  he 
loved.  With  his  arms  about  me,  his  lips  pressed  to  mine, 
every  doubt,  every  fear,  is  gone ;  by  the  passionate  emotion 
of  his  voice  as  he  whispers  the  sweetest  words  my  hungered 
ears  ever  heard,  by  the  quivering  of  his  strong  arms  that  bind 
me,  do  I  not  know,  let  what  will  have  gone  before,  though  he 
may  have  seemed  indifferent  in  bygone  days,  that  he  loves  me 
now  ? — not,  perhaps,  as  I  love  him, — nay,  how  can  a  heart  that 
has  loved  often  feel  the  intense  devotion  of  the  one  that  has 
but  known  a  single  passion  ? — but  he  loves  me.  That  is 
enough  for  me !  I  am  content.  It  is  well, — passing  well. 
If  I  had  not  known  the  wild  misery  of  the  last  three  weeks, 
could  I  have  tasted  the  utter  exquisite  joy  of  to-day,  with  the 
blue  sky  above  me,  and  the  fair  valley  beneath,  the  sweet 
birds'  song,  the  scented  air,  and  above  all,  without  which 
sights  and  scents  and  sounds  were  barren  so  short  a  while  ago, 
**  the  arms  of  m^  true  love  round  me  once  again." 


NOT  TOLD  BY  DIANA.  425 

CHAPTER    XLIV. 

NOT   TOLD   BY   DIANA. 

The  shock  to  Colonel  Montagu  of  his  brother's  death  was 
indescribable.  If  they  had  been  the  most  devoted  brothers 
in  the  world,  he  could  hardly  have  felt  it  more  keenly,  coming 
as  it  did  so  swiftly  upon  Hector's  presentiment,  and  with  the 
memory  of  his  wan,  altered  face.  His  first  impulse  was  to 
start  for  Naples  to  bring  back  the  body.  The  moment  he  got 
his  foreign  leave,  he  was  off,  traveling  day  and  night  until  he 
reached  his  destination.  But  the  sea  never  gave  up  her  dead. 
Colonel  Montagu  came  home  haggard,  with  a  great  grief  gnaw- 
ing at  his  heart.  He  reproached  himself  bitterly  for  having 
let  his  brother  go ;  not  one  exultant  thought  crept  into  his 
heart  at  the  advantage  he  was  to  reap  from  the  death  of  the 
poor  fellow  lying  fathoms  deep  under  the  blue  waters.  If  he 
was  self-indulgent  and  reckless,  he  had  the  kindest  heart  in 
the  world.  Ambition  had  never  troubled  him  ;  he  had  been 
content  with  his  easy,  pleasant  life,  loved  by  men  and  women 
too.  He  might  be  extravagant,  but  he  thought  it  rather  a 
joke  to  make  his  old  curmudgeon  of  a  father  pay  for  his  gay 
follies.  He  never  kept  a  poor  man  waiting  for  his  money, 
nor  refused  to  help  a  friend  in  trouble.  There  was  "  no 
straightcr  fellow  going  than  Charlie  Montagu,"  all  his  brother- 
officers  averred. 

This  was  the  first  gi'ief  he  had  known  in  his  life,  and  he 
felt  it  acutely.  Day  nor  night  could  he  forget  Hector's 
changed,  sad  face,  nor  his  parting  words.  It  seemed  almost 
a  crime  to  him  to  laugh  or  be  happy  when  he  thought  of  the 
pain  his  brother  had  sufiFcred, — the  pain  that  had  banished 

30* 


42G  FOR  A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

him  to  a  strange  "land  to  die.  Ills  thoughts  wosld  go  back 
remorsefully  to  the  night  at  Alford  when  he  had  yielded  to 
the  temptation  of  his  self-indulgent  nature  to  make  hot  love 
to  Diana.  He  had  not  really  loved  her  then, — not  loved  her 
as  he  had  grown  to  do  since  ;  it  had  been  a  sudden  passion 
kindled  in  him  by  her  love,  her  beauty,  and  the  witchery  of 
the  warm,  lovely  night. 

Perhaps,  he  told  himself,  had  Fate  not  put  her  in  his  way 
that  night,  or  had  he  used  his  honor  to  resist  the  temptation, 
Diana  would  have  come  to  care  for  Hector,  and  he,  poor 
fellow,  would  be  living  now.  And  yet  at  that  thought  a 
twinge  came  across  him  :  he  could  not  honestly  wish  Diana  any 
one's  but  his  own  now ;  and  yet  I  believe  firmly  if  giving  her 
up  could  have  brought  his  dead  brother  back,  he  would  have 
tried  to  pluck  her  out  of  his  heart.  There  was  only  one 
atonement  that  he  could  make  now :  he  would  to  the  very 
letter  carry  out  every  wish  of  Hector's  that  concerned  the 
estate,  and  he  would  ascetically  deny  himself  any  profit  or  joy 
yet  awhile  out  of  his  brother's  death.  He  forgot  that  by  this 
self-denial  he  was  making  the  woman  he  loved  sufier ;  he  had 
but  one  idea, — it  would  be  wrong  to  be  happy  yet.  Her 
presence  would  make  him  happy  ;  he  longed  eagerly,  ardently, 
to  go  to  her,  to  take  her  in  his  arms,  to  be  quite  persuaded  of 
what  he  was  so  nearly  certain, — that  she  still  loved  him,  and 
would  forgive  his  seeming  indifference  and  neglect  of  her. 
Somehow  he  felt  as  if  she  must  of  her  own  knowledge  guess 
the  truth  that  he  had  loved  her  all  the  while,  but  that  he  was 
bound  by  the  promise  Hector  had  wrung  from  him  over  his 
father's  death-bed.  When  the  vision  of  her  sweet  face  and 
sorrowful  eyes,  sorrowful  from  his  making,  came  to  him,  he 
tore  it  out  as  treason  to  the  dead  man.  True,  it  was  Hector's 
dying  wish  that  he  should  marry  her, — would  it  not  be  the 
joy  of  his  life  in  the  time  to  come?^ — but  not  yet,  not  yet, — 
while  the  memory  of  Hector's  grief  and  death  was  still  green 


NOT  TOLD  BY  DIANA.  427 

and  fresh.  ^  How  many  a  time,  when  he  rose  in  the  morning, 
had  he  said  to  himself,  with  his  old  self-indulgent  habit,  "  I 
will  ride  over  and  see  my  darling  to-day,"  and  done  violence 
to  himself  afterwards  to  resist  the  temptation  !  and  at  last, 
when  he  did  go,  how  he  had  schooled  himself  to  be  cold  and 
quiet,  and  keep  back  the  love  that  was  rioting  in  his  heart. 
and  so  had  made  her  fancy  him  indiflferent !  It  never  occurred 
to  him  that  she  would  not  understand  the  restraint  he  was 
putting  upon  himself,  and  the  reason  of  it. 

When  Diana's  letter  with  the  inclosures  reached  him,  it  was 
a  revelation.  He  saw  at  last  the  cruelty  he  had  been  practicing 
upon  her,  a  cruelty  to  which  her  anonymous  correspondent, 
whether  friend  or  foe  he  could  not  divine,  had  put  the  cul- 
minating touch.  Why,  that  was  the  very  letter  he  had  written 
to  her  at  the  Desboroughs'  the  day  of  Curly's  accident,  and 
afterwards  had  made  up  his  mind  not  to  send,  because  it  would 
be  a  breach  of  faith  to  Hector.  He  had  missed  it  afterwards 
from  his  blotting-book,  but  fancied  he  must  have  torn  it  up 
with  other  papers.  And  this  the  poor  sensitive  darling  had 
somehow  or  other  turned  against  herself,  and  had  gone  away 
abroad  to  escape  him.  Well,  there  was  but  one  thing  to  do 
now,  at  all  events :  he  was  not  going  to  lose  the  hope  of  his 
life  for  any  scraples  about  the  right  or  wrong  of  being  happy; 
he  would  take  the  goods  the  gods  sent,  and  his  heart  beat  with 
exultation  at  the  thought.  He  rang  for  his  servant,  and  or- 
dered him  to  have  everything  packed  by  the  afternoon,  and 
then  he  went  to  find  his  mother.  They  were  in  Ireland.  He 
would  get  to  Dublin  that  night  in  time  to  cross,  and  go  straight 
to  Curly,  from  whom  he  knew  quite  well  he  would  have  no 
difficulty  in  discovering  his  sister's  whereabouts,  when  he  ex- 
plained to  him  why  he  wanted  it. 

He  then  went  to  his  mother's  room.  She  was  not  yet 
dressed. 

"  I  have  something  important  to  say  to  you,  mother,"  he 


428  FOR   A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

said,  as  he  entered.  "  Parker"  (to  the  maid),  "  don't  look 
black  at  me  for  invading  these  sacred  precincts."  He  spoke 
in  his  usual  pleasant,  smiling  way,  and  Parker,  far  from  look- 
ing black,  smiled,  as  every  woman  smiled  at  Charlie  Mon- 
tagu, and  retired. 

"What  is  it,  my  dear?"  Lady  Montagu  asked,  anxiously, 
unnerved  by  the  severe  shocks  she  had  undergone.  "  No  bad 
news,  I  trust?" 

"  No.  Don't  be  alarmed, — nothing  the  matter,"  he  re- 
turned, and  then  hesitated,  finding  some  little  difficulty  in 
broaching  the  matter  on  his  mind.  "  Little  mother,"  he  said, 
sitting  down  by  her,  and  taking  her  hand  in  the  caressing 
manner  that  was  habitual  to  him,  "  I  told  you  one  of  poor 
Hector's  last  wishes :  there  was  another  I  did  not  tell  you." 

"  Yes  ?"  answered  Lady  Montagu,  the  ready  tears  starting 
to  her  eyes  at  the  mention  of  her  poor  dead  son.  "  Tell  me 
about  it,  dear." 

"  You  know  how  fond  he  was  of  Diana  Carew?" 

Lady  Montagu  shivered  a  little,  as  if  the  remembrance 
pained  her. 

"  The  last  wish  he  expressed  to  me  was  that"  (speaking 
very  slowly)  "  I  should  marry  her." 

"Impossible!"  cried  Lady  Montagu,  with  energy;  "im- 
possible !  I  used  to  be  fond  of  her.  I  do  not  wish  to  con- 
demn her,  but  I  can  never  forget  that  poor  Hector's  death 
lies  at  her  door." 

"  Don't  be  unjust,  little  mother,''  said  Charlie,  gently. 
"  You  cannot  accuse  her  of  having  tried  to  make  hiiu  like 
her,  or  of  giving  him  any  false  encouragement.  She  never 
went  to  Alford  without  being  greatly  pressed.  It  was  a  dread- 
ful misfortune  for  Hector,  poor  dear  fellow,  but  no  one  could 
say  it  was  her  fault."  ^ 

"But,"  argued  his  mother,  "it  is  inconceivable  that  he 
should  have  wished  you  to  marry  her:    he  was  intensely 


NOT  TOLD  BY  DIANA.  429 

jealous  of  you ;  he  made  me  promise  never  even  to  breathe 
your  name  in  her  presence." 

"  I  know,"  sighed  Charlie  ;  "  and  before  he  paid  my  debts 
after  my  poor  father  died,  he  made  me  swear  never  to  utter  a 
word  of  love  to  her  again.  It  did  not  seem  so  hard  then ; 
but  afterwards,  when  I  saw  her  in  town,  and  at  the  Des- 
boroughs',  I  felt  I  cared  for  her  more  than  I  did  for  any  other 
woman,  and  it  was  frightfully  hard  for  me  to  seem  indifferent. 
And  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but"  (averting  his  face,  on  which 
the  color  is  deepening  visibly)  "  heaven  knows  I  am  not  the 
least  worthy  of  it,  but  I  don't  think  she  ever  had  a  thought 
of  love  for  any  one  but  me." 

Lady  Montagu  looked  at  her  handsome  son  with  all  her 
mother's  pride  and  love  shining  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  do  not  know  how  any  woman  could  help  loving  you,"  she 
said,  fondly. 

Charlie,  evading  her  flattery,  went  on  quickly  : 

"  I  never  spoke  to  you  about  it  before,  because  it  seemed 
heartless  to  think  about  being  happy  so  soon,  and  marrying 
the  girl  he  loved,  poor  fellow ;  but  he  was  really  in  earnest 
about  it ;  he  seemed  most  anxious,  and  said  she  knew  all  his 
wishes  about  the  estate  and  the  jjoor.  And  I,  being  afraid  of 
forgetting  too  soon,  have,  I  am  afraid,  behaved  like  a  brute  to 
the  poor  little  thing,  and  she  thinks  I  don't  care  for  her,  and 
has  gone  off  abroad  somewhere." 

"  You  are  not  thinking  of  going  abroad,  Charlie  ?"  cried 
his  mother.  "  You  will  not,  unless  you  want  to  break  my 
heart." 

Then  he  explained  to  her  all  that  had  happened,  and,  after 
much  coaxing,  persuasion,  and  reassuring,  wrung  from  her  a 
most  reluctant  consent  to  his  following  Diana.  It  was  a  hard 
task ;  but  he  was  bent  upon  going,  and  the  poor  mother  yielded 
when  she  saw  it  was  useless  to  resist. 

The  next  day  Sir  Charles  was  at  Eton  with  Curly. 


430  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"  But  Di  said  I  must  not,"  answered  tlae  lad,  ruefully,  in 
answer  to  his  friend's  appeal.  "  You  know  I'd  do  anything 
in  the  world  for  you,  but  Di  said  if  I  loved  her  I  was  not  to 
let  you  know  where  she  was." 

Sir  Charles  proceeded  to  tell  him  as  much  as  he  thought 
necessary  to  convince  him  that  his  sister  would  bear  him  no 
malice  for  the  breach  of  faith. 

"  But,"  persisted  Curly,  more  embarrassed  still  by  this 
aspect  of  affairs,  "  I  gave  Seldon  my  word  of  honor  to  do  all 
I  could  to  persuade  Di  to  marry  him  ;  and  if  I  help  you  I 
shall  be  breaking  my  word  to  him." 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  answered  Charlie,  laughing,  "  Seldon 
has  about  as  much  chance  of  marrying  your  sister  as  you 
have  of  marrying  the  Princess  Beatrice." 

Curly,  at  last  persuaded,  revealed  that  his  father  had  written 
him  to  direct  to  them  at  the  Poste-Restante,  Greneva,  on  the 
23d,  and  that  they  were  traveling  with  the  Fanes.  Then  the 
two  bade  each  other  farewell,  and  Curly  went  back  to  Eton, 
feeling  rather  Judas-like  with  his  future  brother's  magnificent 
tip.  Sir  Charles  went  back  to  town  and  made  arrangements 
for  his  journey.  There  was  no  foreign  leave  to  get  now,  thank 
heaven  :  he  had  sold  out  of  the  Guards,  and  was  of  the 
opinion  that  most  men  are,  or  profess  to  be,  before  and  after 
giving  up  what  has  hitherto  been  the  pride  of  their  lives, — 
that  "  the  service"  was  "  going  to  the  dogs."  He  was  not 
particularly  pleased  at  the  thought  of  Rochester  Fane  being 
Diana's  traveling-companion  :  he  remembered  with  anything 
but  satisfaction  how  attentive  he  had  been  to  her  at  the  War- 
ringtons',  and  with  what  friendliness  she  had  received  and 
accepted  his  attentions.  Sappose  that,  bitterly  hurt  and  indig- 
nant at  his  own  treatment  of  her,  she  had  consoled  herself 
with  Fane's  love  :  for  it  did  not  seem  possible  to  Charlie  now, 
infatuated  as  he  was  becoming  about  her,  that  a  man  could  be 
long  in  her  sweet  society  without  making  love  to  her.     Sup- 


NOT   TOLD  BY  DIANA.  431 

pose  he  should  arrive  too  late.  The  thought  put  him  into  a 
fever.  He  had  not  received  Diana's  letter  for  eight  days  after 
it  was  written,  because  of  the  uncertainty  of  his  own  move- 
ments, and,  owing  to  this  unlucky  accident,  all  this  valuable 
time  had  been  lost. 

Arrived  at  Geneva,  he  had  no  difficulty  in  tracing  them  : 
the  polite  landlord  informed  him  that  they  were  expected  back 
from  the  Voirons  the  following  day.  But  that  was  not  good 
enough  for  Charlie  in  his  hot  haste  :  he  ordered  a  carriage 
and  started  at  once  in  pursuit.  And  so  it  happened  that  while 
Diana  was  breal^ing  her  poor  little  heart  on  the  mountain- 
top  he  was  toiling  up  the  steep  ascent,' guided  by  an  urchin 
from  the  village,  being  far  too  impatient  to  wait  until  a  horse 
was  unyoked  from  the  plow,  and  rather  preferring  to  trust  his 
own  legs  to  get  him  to  the  top.  Mr.  Adams,  his  "  gentle- 
man," who  accompanied  him,  was  furious,  and  swore  to  him- 
self with  a  bitter  oath,  as  he  toiled  and  stumbled  after  his 
active  master  up  the  mountain's  side,  that  if  Sir  Charles  had 
another  such  freak  as  this  he'd  be  blanked  thrice  over  if  he 
didn't  give  up  the  situation,  good  as  it  was. 

The  ex-Guardsman  was  a  curious  mixture  of  energy  and 
indolence :  he  could  endure  any  amount  of  hardship  and 
fatigue,  but  he  would  have  considered  it  an  insufferable  exer- 
tion to  pack  his  owe  clothes  or  shave  himself.  It  is  just  pos- 
sible that  this  was  a  remnant  of  swagger  begun  in  early  \'-S<^ 
and  grown  into  habit.  Anyhow,  Mr.  Adams  toiled  aid 
panted  and  blasphemed  after  him  as  well  as  he  might,  and 
tried  rather  unsuccessfully  to  assume  a  cheerful  smile  mIu  u 
Sir  Charles  now  and  then  turned  with  laughing  good  nature 
to  ask  how  he  was  getting  on. 

The  first  person  Sir  Charles  saw  on  reaching  the  summit 
was  Mr.  Carew,  who,  as  may  be  imagined,  received  him  with 
scant  cordiality.  But,  after  a  few  minutes'  conversation  in 
private,    everything   was    satisfactorily   explained,  and    glad 


432  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

enough  was  Di's  father  to  bid  him  "  God  speed,"  as  he  di- 
rected him  to  the  spot  where  he  was  most  likely  to  find 
her. 

His  heart  beats  as  it  has  never  beaten  before  as  he  sees  the 
slight  graceful  form  he  knows  so  well  flying  before  him. 
There  is  no  languor  in  his  step  or  face  as  he  strides  after  her, 
feeling  in  his  excitement  no  more  fatigue  after  his  unwonted 
exertion  than  if  he  had  strolled  up  St.  James's  Street.  In  a 
moment  he  is  calling  her  by  name,  his  arms  are  round  her, 
he  is  raining  impassioned  kisses  upon  her  lips.  She  does  not 
resist  him,  as  perhaps  a  girl  who  had  been  kissed  by  half  a 
dozen  men  might  have  done,  with  a  show  of  virtue  a  little  too 
conscious  to  be  real :  this  is  the  one  love  of  her  fresh  pure 
heart,  into  which  no  thought  of  any  other  man  has  ever  crept : 
why,  then,  should  she  affect  to  shrink  from  him,  when  it  is 
such  utter  happiness  to  be  near  him  ? 

"  My  own  little  darling,"  he  whispers,  presently,  still  feast- 
ing his  happy  eyes  on  her  dear  face,  "  how  could  you  think 
hardly  of  me  if  you  cared  for  me  ?  Did  you  not  feel  that  I 
loved  you  all  the  time,  even  though  I  was  compelled  to  seem 
indifferent  ?" 

"No,"  answers  Diana,  truthfully.  "  I  did  not  think  you 
cared  for  me.  Oh"  (with  a  little,  touching  sigh),  "  do  you 
think  I  could  ever  have  pretended  not  to  love^/ow.^" 

"  My  darling,"  says  the  young  man,  tenderly,  "  I  wonder 
how  on  earth  I  ever  came  to  be  so  lucky  as  to  be  loved  by 
such  a  little  angel  ?" 

Diana's  face  dimples  with  happy  smiles. 

"  You  wonder,"  she  says,  with  an  air  of  sweet  conviction. 
"  Nay,  it  is  I  who  should  wonder  how  t/ou  came  to  care  for 
me." 

As  she  lifts  her  loving  radiant  eyes  to  his  face  a  strange  re- 
morse comes  over  him. 

"  I  have  been  a  worthless,  selfish  fellow  all  my  life,"  he  says, 


DIANA'S  STORY.  433 

"  but"  (-with  passionate  earnestness)  "  I  swear  to  heaven  to  be 
something  worthier  before  I  die." 

When,  a  long  time  after,  though  it  seems  but  a  few  mo- 
ments to  them,  they  are  sauntering  rehictantly  back  to  the 
hotel,  Diana  stops,  and  glances  lingeringly  down  the  peaceful 
valley  at  the  blue  lake,  lying  like  a  bright  mirror  mountain- 
framed,  at  the  hamlets  with  little  church-spires  looking  heaven- 
ward out  of  each. 

"  And  to-day,"  she  says,  half  to  him,  half  to  herself,  "only 
to-day  I  envied  any  human  soul  down  in  that  valley  by  con- 
trast to  my  own  wretchedness ;  and  now"  (raising  her  rapt, 
lovely  eyes  to  his  face)  "  I  pity  every  one  so  who  is  not  me  1" 

What  sweeter  flattery  could  the  vainest  man  in  Christen- 
dom desire  ? 


CHAPTER    XLV. 


DIANA  S    STORY. 


How  poor  words  are,  how  all  inadequate  to  express  the 
great  joys  and  sorrows  of  our  lives !  Is  it  not  proof  of  this 
that  when  we  are  (how  rarely!)  overtaken  by  great  gladness, 
we  say  we  are  unutterably  happy  ? — if  we  want  to  describe 
anything,  either  of  pleasure  or  pain,  transcending  the  common 
limits  of  every-day  experience,  we  are  reduced  to  saying, 
"  words  fail  to  express,"  etc.  Is  there  some  language  among 
the  dead  ones  in  which  bygone  ages  could  pour  out  the  tor- 
rent of  their  joys  and  woes  without  being  hampered  by  the 
paucity  of  superlatives  which  afflicts  me  at  this  moment?  I 
give  it  up.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  happy  I  am, — so  happy  that 
a  vein  of  fear  runs  through  my  gladness  that  such  utter  bliss 
T  37 


434  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

cannot  last.  It  is  no  dream :  I  am  wide,  wide  awake,  and 
Charlie  is  sitting  opposite  to  me.  He  wished  to  sit  next  me, 
but  I  begged  him  to  sit  opposite  instead,  though  I  was  too  shy 
to  tell  him  why.  It  is  because  I  want  to  see  him,  to  feast  my 
eyes  on  his  face  with  my  old  insatiable  love  of  good  looks. 
And  now  I  need  never  again  steal  furtive  glances  at  the  bright 
debonnair  face.  I  may  fix  ray  eyes  upon  it  without  dropping 
them  guiltily  when  they  meet  his.  Are  the  rest  of  the  party 
c%eerful  and  merry,  I  wonder?  I  hardly  know:  our  spirits 
are  so  exuberant,  after  our  long  famine  of  mirth,  that  if  none 
of  the  others  unclosed  their  lips,  it  must  needs  have  seemed  a 
cheery  gathering.  Papa  looks  very  bright,  I  remark :  is  it 
from  the  contagion  of  my  happiness,  or  from  some  secret  glad- 
ness of  his  own  ?  Ah,  I  can  wish  him  joy  now  without  the 
shadow  of  a  selfish  regret  creeping  in  to  mar  the  genuineness 
of  my  sympathy.  One's  father  naturally  seems  older  to  me 
than  any  other  man  of  the  same  age,  but,  now  I  come  to  think 
of  it,  there  is  hardly  more  difi"erence  between  his  age  and 
Claire's  than  between  Charlie's  and  mine. 

Claire  comes  running  into  my  room  just  before  dinner. 

"  My  dear,"  she  whispers,  her  pretty  face  beaming  with 
kindness  and  congratulation,  "  how  glad  I  am  at  your  happi- 
ness !     Did  I  not  tell  you  to  trust,  and  all  would  be  well?" 

"  Ah,  ClaiVe,"  I  cry,  flinging  my  arms  round  her,  "  I  can't 
tell  you  liow  utterly  happy  I  am.  Was  there  ever  any  one 
in  this  world  so  fortunate  as  I?  I  am  quite  sorry  I  abused 
the  poor  world,  when  it  is,  after  all,  the  happiest,  delight- 
fulest  place  one  can  imagine." 

"  Do  not  forget,  dearest,  where  all  your  thanks  are  due," 
she  says,  softly,  and,  kissing  me  once  again  heartily,  goes  out. 
I  do  not  forget  !  On  my  knees  I  am  thanking  God  with  all 
the  intensity  of  which  my  heart  is  capable  for  his  exceeding 
goodness  to  me.  There  is  one  person  who  does  not  seem 
quite  to  share  the  general  gladness.     That  is  Colonel  Fane. 


DIANA'S  STORY.  435 

He  is  preoccupied  at  dinner,  and  goes  off  alone  afterwards 
with  his  cigar.  It  is  a  glorious  moonlight  night.  Charlie 
and  I  wander  back  to  the  place  of  our  meeting.  Ah,  what  a 
night ! — a  night  to  live  over  again  in  memory  all  the  nights 
of  one's  life,  if  one  lived  to  be  as  old  as  Methuselah,  sure, 
quite  sure,  that  even  in.  the  longest,  happiest  life  there  could 
never  come  two  such.  Dark  pine-clad  mountains  standing 
out  against  the  sapphire  sky,  bright  waters  flashing  back  the 
moon's  streaming  silver,  nightingales  answering  each  other 
from  tree  to  tree,  and  my  hands  clasped  upon  the  arm  of  the 
one  man  the  world  has  ever  held,  will  ever  hold,  for  me. 
And  this  time  last  night — nay,  only  five  short  hours  ago, — 
he  seemed  as  for  removed  from  me,  as  unattainable,  as  that 
glorious  evening  star  yonder. 

"Little  darling,"  says  the  voice  of  my  beloved,  presently, 
"are  you  quite  sure  you  have  nothing  on  your  conscience  to 
confess  to  me  ?" 

"  On  my  conscience  !"  I  repeat,  slowly  turning  my  willing 
and  most  guiltless  eyes  to  his. 

The  mere  sound  of  his  voice  is  delightful  to  me,  even  if  it 
were  propounding  the  Sphinx's  riddle.  That  does  not  seem 
much  more  impossible  to  guess  than  his  present  meaning. 

"  Are  you  quite  sure,"  with  a  little  jealous  accent  that 
delights  me, — "  are  you  quite  sure  you  have  not  been  flirting 
just  a  very  little  bit  with  Fane  ?" 

"  /.'"  I  answer,  in  a  tone  wherein  astonishment  and  reproach 
do  battle  royal  for  victory. 

"  Little  darling,  of  course  I  know  you  did  not,"  he  answers, 
hastily  ;  "  only  he  is  evidently  most  confoundedly  put  out  by 
my  appearance  on  the  scene.  Did  you  not  notice  how  glum 
and  silent  he  was  at  dinner  ?  Such  a  cheery  fellow  as  he  is 
usually." 

"  Absurd !"  I  answer,  with  scorn.  "  Colonel  Fane  looks 
upon  me  as  a  brother." 


436  FOR   A   WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"  Oh,  does  he  ?"  answers  my  lover,  with  an  amused  smile. 
"  You  little  innooent  child"  (taking  my  face  between  his  hands 
and  looking  straight  into  my  eyes),  "  I  think  a  man  would  be 
puzzled  to  be  with  you  long  aud  keep  up  that  usei'ul  little  fic- 
tion of  fraternal  feeling." 

He  is  quite  mistaken  in  his  supposition  ;  but  it  j^leases  me, 
since  it  shows  the  value  he  sets  upon  me, — pleases  me  far  bet- 
ter than  if  it  were  true.  I  never  want  to  know  the  pain  again 
of  being  loved  by  a  man  to  whose  affection  I  can  make  no 
return. 

It  is  decided  that  we  are  still  to  continue  our  Swiss  trip, 
but  to  be  at  home  again  by  the  time  Curly  leaves  Eton,  instead 
of  his  joining  us  abroad,  as  had  been  proposed  when  the 
thought  of  returning  to  Carew  Court  had  been  so  hateful  to 
me.  I  shall  always  love  Switzerland  better  than  any  country 
save  my  own, — not  for  the  sake  of  her  beauty  only,  but  in 
memory  of  the  happy  days  I  spent  on  her  glorious  heights,  in 
her  tranquil  valleys,  on  her  blue  lakes,  by  her  silver  streams, 
in  her  quaint  old  towns.  I  know  not  when  or  where  I  was 
happiest : — if  it  was  gliding  along  the  lakes,  with  the  red 
sunset  kindling  the  waters  into  flame  and  purpling  the  moun- 
tain-sides ;  in  the  delicious  Vevay  gardens,  listening  to  the 
entrancing  strains  of  the  string  band  ;  driving  along  the  lovely 
valley  of  the  Arve,  where  the  water  leaps  flashing  against  the 
•  sunshine ;  at  Chamouni,  in  glorious  sight  of  the  great  snow- 
king,  standing  against  the  clear  blue  sky ;  among  the  lovely 
scenery  from  Argentiers  to  IMartigny,  with  its  wealth  of  wild 
flowers  and  ferns,  crystal  streams,  luxuriant  trees,  and  distant 
view  of  the  sharp  aigTiilles,  with  their  myosotis-colored  back- 
ground. Every  scene  is  indelibly  fixed  on  my  mind,  every 
spot  we  visited, — the  ice-caves,  green  and  transparent  as  our 
English  seas  at  calm,  the  awe-striking  Gorge  de  Trient,  where 
I  fell  into  a  panic  lest  we  two,  in  the  zenith  of  our  happiness, 
should  be  engulfed  in  the  black  seething  waters,  sweet  Lucerne, 


DIANA'S  STORY.  437 

peaceful  Interlachen,  pretty,  picturesque  Tliun,  quaint  old 
Berne,  Ouches,  Lausanne, — all  the  lovely  haunts  of  fair  Hel- 
vetia. We  were  early  in  the  season,  and  did  not  meet  many 
of  our  own  country-people, — a  chance  bride  and  bridegroom, 
generally  French  or  German,  whom  we  regarded,  Charlie  and 
I,  with  furtive  sympathy,  a  few  Americans,  pretty,  well  chaiis- 
sees  and  well  dressed,  and  a  few  Russians.  Everywhere  we 
go,  my  generous  lover  insists  upon  heaping  me  with  presents, 
until  at  last  I  rebel. 

*'  Don't  think  me  ungracious,"  I  plead,  "  but  when  you  give 
me  all  these  beautiful  things  which  I  have  not  been  used  to, 
and  don't  want,  it  makes  me  quite  unhappy.  If"  (with  a 
slight  accent  of  reproach)  "  I  did  not  care  for  you,  and  you 
were  trying  to  wia  me  over  by  gifts,  there  might  be  something 

in  it ;  but  when  you  know "  And  my  eyes,  to  spare  the 

modesty  of  my  lips,  finish  the  sentence. 

"  Little  darling,"  he  says,  in  answer,  "  don't  you  think  it's 
rather  selfish  of  you  to  deprive  me  of  the  greatest  pleasure  I 
have  in  the  world  ?" 

That  journey,  than  which  none  was  ever  more  sadly  begun, 
more  triumphantly  concluded,  comes  to  an  end  at  last.  We 
are  on  English  shores  and  in  London.  Charlie  and  I  separate 
with  bitter  reluctance,  though  it  is  only  for  a  week  or  two, 
whilst  he  joins  his  mother  and  brings  her  back  to  Alford. 
When  Curly  has  gone  back  to  Eton  for  his  last  term,  I  am  to 
go  to  Alford  for  a  short  visit,  and  in  October  we  are  to  be 
married. 

"  It  seems  an  eternity  to  October,"  he  grumbles  ;  "  but  of 
course  you  are  right ;  we  must  not  seem  to  have  forgotten 
poor  Hector."     And  a  shadow  comes  across  his  clear  brow. 

Curly  is  delighted,  when  he  has  shaken  ofi"  one  or  two  loyal 
regrets  for  his  friend  Lord  Seldon. 

"  I  think  he's  getting  over  it,"  he  whispers  me,  with  a 
sagacious  uod.     "  I  introduced"  him  this  Eton  and  Harrow 
37* 


438  FOR   A    WOMAN'S  SAKE 

match  to  one  of  Archdale's  sisters, — Viola,  the  dark  one ;  and, 
considering  that  he  swore  he'd  never  have  anything  to  do  with 
a  woman  again,  he  seemed  to  be  getting  on  pretty  well.  One 
thing,  he  had  the  right  one  to  help  him  :  he  won't  ask  Miss 
Viola  to  share  his  coronet  in  vain.  Oh,  Di  !  how  could  you 
be  such  a  little  donkey  ?  Not  but  what  Charlie's  a  stunning 
good  fellow  ;  only  I  should  have  liked  to  see  you  a  duchess. 
And  the  Dad  too  ! — only  fancy  the  Dad  getting  spoony  at  his 
time  of  life  !"  (for  Claire  has  consented  to  marry  papa  when 
I  have  left  the  old  home).  "  I'm  rather  glad  as  it  has  turned 
out.  She's  so  awfully  sweet  and  good,  Claire,  she  won't  be 
trying  to  set  the  Dad  against  us,  like  most  step-mothers  would. 
And  then,"  adds  Curly,  practically,  "  that  five  hundred  a  year 
of  hers  will  be  very  useful  to  them  :  it  isn't  as  if  she  had 
nothing  ;  and  the  old  place  would  have  been  awfully  dull 
without  a  woman." 

I  am  going  to  divide  my  three  hundred  a  year  between 
papa  and  Curly,  for  Charlie  refuses  to  have  me  as  a  dowered 
bride,  in  however  small  a  degree,  and  I, — I  love  to  owe  every- 
thing to  him.  So  he  has  combated  my  father's  and  brother's 
objections,  and  insists  upon  having  his  own  way  in  this  matter, 
ut  all  events. 

My  first  meeting  with  Lady  Montagu  is  a  painful  one, — we 
both  cry  floods  of  tears ;  but,  after  we  have  been  together  a 
few  days,  she  steals  behind  me,  and,  taking  my  head  between 
her  small  white  fingers,  she  kisses  it,  and  in  a  tone  tremulous 
with  emotion,  whispers, — 

"  Do  not  think,  my  child,  that  I  love  you  the  less  because 
my  manner  has  been, a  little  constrained  towards  you  lately. 
I  could  not  quite  forget"  (with  a  sob)  "poor  Hector.  But 
there  is  no  one  in  the  world  I  should  love  so  much  to  have 
for  a  daughter." 

My  wedding-day  has  come :  it  dawns  clear  and  bright,  with 


DIANA'S  STORY.  439 

an  Italian  sky,  and  the  glorious  warmth  of  July.  Gay  is 
radiant  at  this  auspicious  omen.  "  Happy  is  the  bride  that 
the  sun  shiues  on  !"  she  chirps,  over  and  over  again,  as,  with 
loving  fingers  whose  alacrity  is  a  little  delayed  by  joyful  agita- 
tion, she  apparels  me  in  my  bridal  gear.  The  new  maid  is 
not  allowed  to  lay  one  finger  upon  me  so  long  as  I  am  Diana 
Carew.  I  am  Gay's  own  child,  that  she  has  brought  up  from 
my  very  tenderest  youth,  and  no  one,  she  and  I  resolve,  shall 
supersede  her  so  long  as  I  am  still  the  child  of  the  house. 
Gay  is  in  raptures,  then,  because  the  sun  shines ;  but  I — ! 
The  sun  can  add  no  joy  to  mine  ;  a  deluge  could  hardly  take 
from  it ;  but  of  course  it  is  far  better  that  everything  should 
go  smoothly  and  auspiciously. 

It  is  to  be  a  very  quiet  wedding,  no  one  but  ourselves, — 
papa.  Lady  Montagu,  Curly,  Claire  (Colonel  Fane  is  away), 
and  Lord  Rexborough,  who  is  to  be  best  man.  He  and  I  are 
tremendous  friends  since  Curly's  accident.  I  understand  him 
so  much  better,  and  his  manner  is  so  far  gentler  and  less 
rough  than  it  used  to  be.  I  confess  frankly  to  having  mis- 
judged him  :  he  has  a  thoroughly  kind  heart  under  that 
rough  exterior,  which  was  more  affected  than  natural,  I  verily 
believe. 

The  sun  shines  with  a  hearty  good  will  upon  us,  shines  in 
a  flood  through  the  stained  window  over  the  altar,  and  plays  a 
thousand  pranks  with  my  white  attire,  decking  it  with  vivid, 
unbride-like  blue  and  red,  green  and  gold.  But  I  am  so  con- 
fident of  my  future  happiness  that  I  would  have  gone  to 
church  clad  in  black  from  head  to  foot  with  profound  in- 
difference. There  are  no  other  wedding  guests,  save  my 
poor,  who  have  collected  in  force  at  the  lower  end  of  the 
church,  and  in  the  church-yard.  As  I  go  out  leaning  on  the 
arm  of  my  husband,  of  whom  [  f  el  so  utterly,  unspeakably 
proud,  they  press  forward  with  hearty  blessings  and  good  will. 
The  unbidden   ttnii  s  rusli   to  my  eyes :    these  sincere  good 


440  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

wishes  seem  better  worth  having  to  me  than  the  congratu- 
lations of  half  a  dozen  of  dukes  and  duchesses. 

They  are  to  have  a  dinner  when  we  are  gone,  which  will  be 
as  soon  after  the  wedding  as  I  can  put  off  my  bride's  dress 
and  don  my  traveling-garb ;  for  we  are  going  up  to  town  by 
the  two  o'clock  train,  and  have  to  drive  six  miles  to  the  station. 

Dearly  as  I  love  my  husband,  fearlessly  as  I  face  the  un- 
known future  with  him,  how  can  I  yet  leave  the  Dad  and  my 
boy  without  a  twinge  of  keenest  pain?  I  have  kept  up 
bravely  until  now,  have  wished  every  one  good-by  with  ready 
smiles,  but  now  that  it  comes  to  those  two  my  eyes  are  dim, 
my  voice  falters.  Have  I  not  lived  all  the  years  of  my  life 
with  my  father  ?  have  not  we  shared  our  cares  and  loved  each 
other  with  the  heartiest  love  wherewith  a  father  and  child  can 
love  ?  Never  has  one  of  us  harbored  an  unkind  thought  of 
the  other,  never  has  a  cross  word  passed  his  lips  to  me,  nor  a 
petulant  one  mine  to  him.  And  our  boy,  whom  we  have 
loved  with  all  our  hearts,  whom  our  tears  and  prayers  have 
brought  back  from  the  doors  of  death !  How  can  I  leave 
these  two  without  emotion  ?  I  can  not.  Tears  blind  my 
eyes,  sobs  choke  my  throat,  as  I  throw  my  arms  first  round 
one  then  the  other ;  and  their  eyes,  too,  though  with  manly 
shame  they  try  hard  to  smile,  their  eyes  are  dim,  their  dear 
voices  that  bid  me  such  hearty  "  God  speed"  quiver  and 
tremble;  and  I,  the  happiest,  proudest  woman  in  England, 
am  helped  into  the  carriage  by  the  man  I  love  with  all  my 
heart,  in  floods  of  tears  as  though  I  were  the  saddest,  unwill- 
ingest  bride  in  the  world. 

"  Little  darling,"  whispers  my  handsome  husband,  as  we 
drive  away, — he  always  calls  me  thus;  he  does  not  like  my 
name, — "  you  shall  never  have  any  cause  for  tears  that  I  can 
prevent,  I  swear.  Look  at  me;  tell  me  you  are  not  afraid  to 
trust  the  future  with  m3." 

I  look  into  his  deep-blue  eyes  and  smile  through  my  tears. 


NOT  TOLD   BY  DIANA.  441 

If  but  half  of  the  great  love  and  confidence  I  have  in  him  is 
written  in  mine,  he  must  needs  be  content  with  what  he  reads. 
I  think  he  is. 


CHAPTEU   XLVI. 


NOT   TOLD   BY   DIANA. 


Christmas  week, — a  genuine  old-fashioned  Christmas, — a 
white  world  without,  blazing  fires  and  holly-wreaths  within,  a 
larder  stocked  to  defy  the  ravages  of  hunger  among  a  good- 
sized  garrison,  signs  of  prosperity  and  plenty  evei-ywhere. 
Christmas  is  evidently -going  to  be  kept  at  Alford ;  the  Yule 
logs  are  ready  for  burning,  plum-puddings  have  been  made 
for  the  million,  and  the  tokens  of  festival  that  are  wont  to 
gladden  the  hearts  of  boys  and  girls  home  from  school  abound. 
It  is  not  that  the  house-party  is  intended  to  be  a  very  large 
or  gay  one,  but  this  year  the  poor  have  been  thought  of  with 
bounteous  memory,  and  the  chief  part  of  the  gallant  array  of 
stores  is  destined  to  find  its  way  into  multitudinous  humble 
homes,  where  it  will  boundlessly  rejoice  and  warm  the  hearts 
of  the  recipients.  Still,  there  is  to  be  a  party  at  the  Court, 
and,  if  not  a  gay  one,  still  a  very  cheery  one.  Mr.  Carew 
and  his  new  wife  are  coming ;  Curly,  of  course,  and  Colonel 
Fane ;  Lord  Rexborough,  and  a  Miss  Montagu,  cousin  to  Sir 
Charles.  Lady  Montagu  (not  the  pale  delicate  lady  we  have 
hitherto  known  by  that  name, — the  dowager  now, — but  a 
lovely,  graceful  young  woman,  whose  name  is  Diana),  Lady 
Montagu  has  busied  herself  all  the  morning  with  tripping  into 
each  room  prepared  for  the  reception  of  visitors,  placing  flowers 


442  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

there  whicli  slie  has  arranged  with  her  own  fan'  hands,  and 
casting  thoughtful  glances  around  to  see  that  nothing  is  want- 
ing for  the  comfort  and  pleasure  of  the  coming  guests.  Curly's 
room  is  her  special  care  and  delight ;  she  never  wearies  of 
stealing  in  to  look  at  that.  There  hang  his  favorite  pictures, 
the  books  he  loves,  with  many  new  treasures  that  her  loving 
care  has  placed  there.  For  in  the  future  she  means  Alford 
to  be  as  much  his  home  as  Carew  Court ;  as  much, — not  more, 
for  her  father's  sake. 

Happiness  is  certainly  vastly  improving.  Diana  was  always 
pretty  and  gracious-mannered,  but  now,  radiant  with  love  and 
happiness,  she  may  well  be  called,  as  she  often  is,  as  her  hus- 
band thinks  her,  lovely.  Perhaps  the  elegant  and  costly  attire 
with  which  Sir  Charles  insists  upon  her  being  adorned  has 
something  to  do  with  the  enhancement  of  her  beauty.  I,  for 
one,  agree  with  Tennyson  when  he  says, — 

"  Let  never  maiden  tliink,  however  fair, 
She  is  not  fairer  in  new  clothes  than  old." 

To  say  that  Sir  Charles  and  his  wife  are  still  the  most 
doting  lovers  is  not  to  say  much  for  a  two-months-old  mar- 
riage. I  may  tell  of  the  past,  but  dare  I  predict  what  is  in 
store  for  them  ? — and  yet  I  have  immense  faith  in  their  hap- 
piness in  the  future.  Diana  is  fair  and  loving,  and  good  as 
she  is  fair ;  and  he  is  generous,  good-hearted,  sweet-tempered, 
and  he  adores  her.  For  once  the  oft-quoted  French  proverb 
would  be  out  of  place,  "  De  deux  amants  il  y  a  toujours  un 
qui  baise  et  un  qui  tend  la  joue,"  although  it  might  have  been 
true  enough  once. 

Diana  is  beloved  by  every  one,  from  her  mother-in-law, 
who  thinks  there  is  no  one  like  her,  to  the  magnate  of  the 
servants'  hall,  unambitious  of  a  new  mistress,  Mrs.  Bishop. 
But  even  her  golden  opinions  have  been  won  by  the  fair  young 
chatelaine,  and  she  has  not  a  word  for  her  but  what  is  favor- 


NOT  TOLD   BY  DIANA.  443 

able  and  admiring.  Outside,  in  the  parish,  she  has  already 
begun  the  work  of  which  she  and  Hector  had  talked  so  often 
in  the  old  days.  She  goes  even  further :  she  makes  it  her 
business  to  know  the  wants  and  sorrows  of  her  new  people ; 
in  her  own  immense  happiness  and  prosperity  she  does  not 
forget  those  whom  Providence  has  less  endowed ;  and  from 
her  husband  she  has  carte  blanche  for  her  charities.  Diana 
is  quite  to  be  trusted ;  she  is  prudent  if  she  is  generous ;  she 
does  not  think  charity  consists  in  giving  indiscriminately  to 
all  who  ask,  and  she  knows,  too,  how  a  little  sympathy,  a  few 
kind  words,  oftentimes  make  a  small  gift  of  more  value  to  the 
receiver  than  a  large  one,  sent  coldly  and  without  interest, 
through  a  servant. 

The  Dowager  Lady  Montagu  proposed  to  leave  the  Court 
after  her  son's  marriage  and  take  up  her  abode  at  the  Dower 
House ;  but  her  children  ridiculed  the  idea  utterly.  They 
had  vowed  to  each  other  to  make  the  rest  of  her  life  happy 
and  serene  ;  she  was  never  to  know  another  care  ;  she  should 
be  as  much  mother  to  Diana  as  to  Charlie.  She  had  her  own 
suite  of  rooms,  and,  delicate  of  intruding  upon  the  happiness 
of  the  noiweaiix  marics,  she  would  shut  herself  up  too  much 
alone :  so,  when  she  would  not  be  prevailed  upon  to  come  to 
them,  they  simplified  matters  by  going  to  her. 

It  is  noon  of  the  day  before  Christmas.  Diana,  having  put 
the  finishing-touches  to  all  the  rooms,  opines  that  she  will 
make  her  toilette  de  reception  before  lunch.  The  guests  are 
all  to  arrive  between  two  and  thi-ee,  and  she  has  been  especially 
desired  to  make  herself  "  lovely."  Not  one  of  the  party  have 
seen  her  since  she  was  borne  from  their  sight  in  a  flood  of  tears 
on  her  wedding-day.  Sir  Charles  often  twits  her  laughingly 
with  this  episode. 

"  I  never  felt  so  small  in  my  life,"  he  is  wont  to  declare, 
"  a.s  when  I  carried  you  off  bathed  in  tears  from  the  arms  of 
your  agonized  relatives." 


444  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

Diana  does  not  like  to  be  reminded  of  her  weakness,  and 
puts  her  little  white  hand  before  his  mouth. 

"  It  is  quite  true,  little  darling,"  he  insists,  kissing  it.  "  I 
believe  you  were  awfully  sorry  when  it  came  to  going  off  with 
me,  and  leaving  everybody  behind  but  the  pug." 

The  finishing-touch  is  being  put  to  Lady  Montagu's  toi- 
lette when  Sir  Charles  comes  in.  The  maid  discreetly  van- 
ishes. 

"  Little  darling,"  says  the  sovereign  of  Diana's  heart,  coming 
towards  her  after  having  stood  for  a  moment  at  the  door  to 
take  in  every  detail,  for  he  is  a  perfect  connoisseur  of  the  art 
of  dress,  "  you  look  'positively  lovely  1  I  am  afraid"  (coming 
a  little  nearer)  "  to  touch  you." 

"  Do  not  be,"  she  answers,  with  sparkling  eyes  and  blush- 
ing cheeks  (she  has  not  quite  lost  that  embarrassing  old 
habit) ;  and  as  she  speaks  she  twines  both  her  arms  round  his 
neck  and  puts  up  her  sweet  red  lips  to  be  kissed. 

"  You  will  make  quite  a  sensation  next  season,"  he  predicts. 
"  You  know,  little  darling,  you  really  are  a  much  prettier 
woman  than  when  I  married  you.  I  am  longing  for  them  all 
to  see  you.  I  know  they  will  say  so,  every  one  of  them.  No 
tears  to-day,  mind ;  no  red  eyes  and  pink  noses." 

"  Tears  !"  she  retorts,  with  happy  scorn  :  "  why  should 
there  be  tears  when  we  are  all  meeting  f 

"  Next  September,"  says  Sir  Charles,  "  we  will  have  the 
cheeriest  parties  in  the  world, — a  happy  mixture  of  Guards- 
men and  pretty  women, — no  dowagers  except  the  mother." 

"  You  won't  want  to  have  the  Desboroughs,  will  you,  dar- 
ling?" asks  Diana,  coaxingly. 

"  At  all  events,  we  will  not  ask  the  heiress,"  he  answers, 
gayly.     "  You  shall  have  no  cause  for  jealousy." 

Diana  laughs.  Then,  twining  her  hands  round  her  hus- 
band's arm,  and  looking  up  into  his  handsome  face, — 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  says,  with  an  air  of  sweet  conviction, 


NOT  TOLD  BY  DIANA.  445 

"  I  can't,  help  being  sorry  for  her  ?     I  am  sorry  for  every 
woman  who  has  not  got  you." 

"  Little  flatterer,"  he  says,  putting  his  arm  round  her, 
"  what  answer  do  you  expect  me  to  make  to  your  barefaced- 
compliments  ?  All  the  same  I  must  say"  (laughing)  "  you 
are  unnecessarily  liberal  of  sympathy  for  your  sex.  The 
heiress  apart,  I  don't  know  of  any  other  very  anxious  aspii-ant 
to  my  charms.     Come  and  show  yourself  to  the  mother." 

Leaning  on  Sir  Charles's  arm,  Lady  Montagu  traverses  the 
oaken  gallery.  Her  maid  and  the  upper  housemaid  are  peep- 
ing after  them  from  a  half-open  door, 

"  Aren't  they  a  lovely  couple?"  whispers  the  maid. 

"Yes,"  sighs  the  upper  housemaid.  She  has  long  been  the 
victim  of  a  secret  passion  for  her  handsome  young  master. 
She  is  stout  and  middle-aged,  but  she  none  the  less  shares 
Diana's  passion  for  good  looks. 

The  Dowager  Lady  Montagu  greets  her  children  with  a 
fond  smile  as  they  enter  her  boudoir,  still  arm  in  arm. 

"Is  not  this  a  ravishing  toilette,  little  mother?"  asks  Sir 
Charles,  bringing  his  wife  forward  and  regarding  her  with 
eyes  of  fondest  admiration. 

"  Indeed  it  is,"  replies  the  dowager,  with  unfeigned  admira- 
tion. "  I  must  not  tell  you  what  I  think,  my  love"  (to  Diana), 
"  or  I  should  make  you  vain." 

"  Fine  feathers,"  laughs  Diana,  gayly,  who  is  not  above  feel- 
ing the  sweetness  of  genuine  flattery.  "  I  think  I  am  rather 
a  fine  bird  just  now,  mamma.  Your  rival  is  coming  to-day" 
(stooping  to  kiss  the  elder  lady's  delicate  cheek).  "  Fancy 
my  being  so  rich  all  at  once :  a  little  while  ago  I  had  no 
mother,  and  now  I  have  two." 

"  Claire  is  my  mother  too,"  says  Sir  Charles,  laughing.  "  I 
shall  make  a  point  of  calling  her  by  her  new  title." 

"  If  you  please.  Sir  Charles,  Hawkins  would  be  glad  to 
speak  to  you,"  says  Simkins,  appearing  in  the  doorway. 

38 


446  FOR  A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

» 

"  All  right :  I  will  be  with  him  directly."  And  presently 
the  young  man  goes  out. 

"  By  the  way,  my  dear,"  observes  the  Dowager  Lady  Mon- 
tagu to  her  daughter,  when  the  door  closes  upon  Sir  Charles, 
"  I  have  just  found  something  that  must,  I  think,  be  meant 
for  you." 

"  For  me,  mamma?" 

"  It  is  a  small  parcel  that  was  pushed  back  in  the  far  corner 
of  a  drawer  in  what  used  to  be  poor  Hector's  room.  I  came 
across  it  only  half  an  hour  ago :  it  is  directed  in  his  hand- 
writing, '  For  my  sister-in-law.^  " 

"  It  surely  cannot  be  for  me,"  says  Diana,  trembling  a  little. 

"  Open  it,  and  see." 

Diana  unfastens  the  string  that  binds  it :  her  deft  fingers 
are  unwontedly  awkward.  At  last  she  has  undone  the  first 
wrapper.  There  is  still  another,  on  which  is  written,  "  For 
my  sister-in-latv,  if  she  he  called  Diana." 

The  color  fades  from  Diana's  cheek.  She  knows  not  why 
she  feels  thus  strangely  moved,  but  she  does.  Her  knees 
knock  together.  She  cannot  open  it  in  Lady  Montagu's 
presence. 

"  Mamma,"  she  says,  in  a  low,  hurried  voice,  "  I  cannot  open 
it  here.  Let  me  take  it  to  my  room.  I  will  tell  you  about  it 
afterwards." 

"  As  you  wish,  my  dear,"  answers  Lady  Montagu,  a  shade 
disappointed. 

Diana  hurries  away  to  her  room.  A  strange  terror  possesses 
her.  She  knows  not  why,  but  she  has  a  presentiment  of  some 
painful  disclosure.  She  is  so  nervous  she  cannot  wait  to  un- 
fasten the  string,  but,  taking  a  knife,  cuts  it.  When  she  has 
taken  the  paper  from  it,  she  utters  a  sigh  of  relief;  it  is  only 
a  book,  a  little  old  French  book.  Hastily  she  turnover  the 
leaves.  Stop  !  here  are  marks.  She  reads,  "  The  story  of 
the  sad  knight  who  died  for  a  woman's  sake."     Her  breath 


NOT  TOLD   BY  DIANA.  447 

comes  quick,  she  trembles  in  every  limb,  but  she  reads  on 
hurriedly, — reads  the  story, — sees  the  identity  of  cases  that 
struck  Hector,  and  understands  with  swift  intuition  what  is 
the  meaning  of  this  legacy  that  he  has  left  her.  Presently 
she  comes  to  the  two  underlined  passages,  "  He  lies  dead  in 
a  foreign  land,  and  all  for  a  woman's  sake."  "  But  anon  came 
her  own  true  love,  and  they  were  wed." 

A  little  cry  escapes  her.  She  pushes  the  book  away,  and 
gazes  stupidly  before  her  with  sightless  eyes.  A  great  horror 
creeps  over  her.  Could  it  be  that  he  had  gone  away  from 
Alford,  away  from  his  country,  resolved  in  his  own  heart  to 
die  ?  Everything  seemed  to  confirm  the  awful  thought :  his 
last  injunctions  to  his  brother,  this  underlined  story  addressed 
to  his  sister-in-law.  She,  however  unwittingly,  had  been  the 
cause  of  his  death.  And  he,  as  he  had  foreseen,  having  died  for 
her  sake,  had  been  forgotten,  and  she  had  married  his  brother, 
and  been  happy.  The  horror  of  the  thoughts  crowding  one 
after  another  seems  as  if  it  would  almost  bereave  her  of  reason. 
Poor  Hector !  at  last  the  woman  you  have  loved  so  utterly  re- 
alizes all  she  was  to  you,  all  you  sacrificed  for  her  sake.  She 
who  thought  you  cold  and  hard  and  passionless  knows  at  last 
how  you  could  love.  And  as  the  thought  comes  to  her,  Diana, 
all  unmindful  of  her  dress,  of  her  coming  guests,  whom  she 
is  to  greet  with  her  happiest  smiles,  flings  herself  prone  by 
her  bedside,  and  in  her  sorrow  and  remorse  cries  such  bitter 
tears  as  she  has  never  thought  to  shed  again  in  the  new  life. 

The  gong  sounds.  Her  ears  are  unmindful ;  she  heeds 
nothing,  cares  for  nothing,  has  no  thought  but  one  intense, 
heart-breaking  pity  of  the  dead  man  who  had  loved  her  so 
utterly.  A  swift  step  sounds  upon  the  stairs ;  she  heeds  it 
not.  The  door  is  pushed  open,  her  husband  calls  her  by  her 
name,  once,  twice :  she  heeds  not,  answers  not. 

All  at  once  he  catches  sight  of  her  prone  form,  hears  her 
gasping  sobs. 


448  FOR   A    WOMAN'S  SAKE. 

"  God  in  heaven  !"  he  cries,  with  white  lips,  "  my  own  little 
darling,  what  is  the  matter?  Speak  to  me — oh,  child,  for 
God's  sake  speak  to  me  !" 

She  answers  him  by  never  a  word.  He  takes  her  up  in  his 
arms,  lays  her  on  the  sofa,  and  kneels  down  beside  her. 

"  Do  you  want  to  break  my  heart?"  he  whispers,  in  a  tone 
of  such  utter  misery  that  she  at  last  comes  back"  from  her 
a  onized  trance  and  remembers  him.     She  points  to  the  book. 

"  Bead,"  she  murmurs  ;  "  read." 

And  he,  wondering  more  and  more,  takes  the  book  that  is 
lying  open,  and  reads  for  himself, — reads  the  bitter  story  from 
beginning  to  end.     Then  he  too  comprehends. 

They  look  from  one  to  other  with  mute  misery ;  he  has 
no  word  to  say  that  may  comfort  her,  nor  she  him. 

"  Poor  little  girl ! — poor  Hector  !"  he  murmurs,  at  last,  in 
a  broken  voice,  whilst  the  unwonted  tears  stand  in  his  eyes. 

"  At  least,"  says  Sir  Charles,  after  a  long  silence,  "  thank 
God,  whatever  he  may  have  had  in  his  mind,  poor  fellow,  he 
came  to  his  death  by  fair  means.  Poor  little  darling !"  (with 
infinite  tenderness),  "  this  must  grieve  you  terribly  ;  and  so, 
heaven  knows,  it  does  me.  But  you  have  no  cause  to  blame 
yourself.  What  could  you  have  done?  There  is  only  one 
thing  we  can  do  now"  (sighing)  ;  "  that  is,  to  remember  him, 
and  do  our  utmost  to  carry  out  all  his  wishes.  And,  darling, 
for  heaven's  sake  keep  it  from  my  poor  mother.  It  would 
break  her  heart." 

And  so  Diana  rises  and  washes  the  tears  from  her  face  as 
he  bids  her.  But  she  goes  heavily,  as  one  that  mourneth  for 
a  brother. 

She  feels  now  as  if  this  will  always  stand  between  her  and 
joy  all  her  life  through. 

"  I  was  too  happy,"  she  says  to  herself,  sighing.  "  I  felt 
it  could  not  last.     Now  I  can  never  be  happy  any  more." 

But  you  and  I,  reader,  know  that  it  will  not  be  so.     When 


NOT  TOLD   BY  DIANA.  449 

we  are  surrounded  by  those  we  love,  when  the  world  showers 
its  fairest  gifts  with  lavish  hands  upon  us,  when  we  have  the 
faithful  heart  of  him  whom  we  love  best  in  the  world  to  lay 
our  sorrowful  head  upon,  how  can  we  but  forget? 

"And  grief  shall  endure  not  forever,  I  know; 

As  things  that  are  not  shall  these  things  be. 

«  *  »  *  «  -» 

Wrecked  hope  and  passionate  pain  shall  be 

As  tender  things  of  a  spring-tide  sea." 

And  Diana,  though  she  is  moved  with  such  sorrow  to-day 
for  the  man  who  loved  her  "  not  wisely,  but  too  well" — Diana, 
because  her  sorrow  is  grounded  on  pity,  not  on  love, — because 
she  has  the  constant  presence  and  passion  of  the  man  who  is 
all  in  all  to  her, — Diana  needs  must  cease  to  grieve,  needs 
must  be  her  own  joyous,  radiant  self  again  ;  but  in  the  midst 
of  her  happiness  she  will  nevermore  lose  the  memory  of  the 
man  who  died  in  a  foreign  land,  and  all  for  a  tvomaits  sake. 


THE   END. 


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"  It  is  a  valuable  contribution  to 
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Sergeant  Atkins.  A  Tale  of  Advetiture.  Founded 
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Indian  warfare,  'Sergeant  Atkins' 
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Florida  war  which  are  necessary  to  a 
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ress and  character."  —  Army  and 
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est  of  the  reader  from  the  outset."— 

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reception,  while  those  who  are  ignor-  |  tirtel. 

The  Little  Moorland  Princess.     From  the  German 

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"  It  IS  a  great  luxury  to  give  one's  self  | 

Magdalena.      Fi'om   the    German    of  E.   Marlitt^ 

autlior  of  "  Countess  Gisela,"  etc.    And  The  Lonely  Ones 

("The    Solitaries").     From    the  German  of  Paul  Hcyse. 

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"We  know  of  no  way  in  which  a  I  either  of  these  tales." — IntiiaruijKflM 

eisure  hour  may  be  more  pleasantly     itentinel. 

wLiled  away    than    by  a   jjerusal    oi  I 


